


Different Names for the Same Place

by namelessamelie



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Drama, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, HP: EWE, Post-War, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-05-05
Updated: 2012-08-01
Packaged: 2017-11-04 21:36:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 36,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/398449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/namelessamelie/pseuds/namelessamelie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, the wind blows us places we've never dreamed.  //  Post-war wizarding society is still rife with prejudice, and Hermione intends to do something about it—even if it means enlisting the help of the insufferable Draco Malfoy, whose presence suddenly seems to have become inescapable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story was originally written for the 2011 Dramione Remix, for the prompt couple Scarlett O'Hara/Rhett Butler. The first eleven chapters can be found at Hawthorn & Vine.

This couldn’t be happening.

No. It simply couldn’t be. Hermione refused to believe it.

It was true that she and Ron hadn’t been dating, exactly, and that she had been too busy with her work to pay him any _real_ attention for almost a year, but still—

She began pacing her office, as was her habit when she faced any sort of dilemma. She was _Hermione Granger_ , damn it, and she could solve any problem, given sufficient thought. With enough pacing, the answer would come.

But the answer did not come, and she finally sat back down in her chair and held her head in her hands. It had never felt quite so heavy. Had she been wrong in thinking, all this time, that she and Ron were meant to be? That the rift between them was inconsequential, something easily mended? That, in spite of everything, they would eventually end up together one day?

She shook the thought aside. She had waited too long, perhaps, to reconcile. With everything that she was trying to accomplish at the Ministry, there had simply been no time for anything else—relationships included. But now—now she would make time. That had been her mistake—not letting him know how she really felt. Now, she would make her feelings known.

She wouldn’t _let_ this happen.

~

“Hermione, is that you? Oh, I’m so glad you could make it!” exclaimed Parvati, making her way across the room to greet her. She was followed closely by Ginny, who wore a very thin smile. “I thought you might be too busy, what with your hectic work schedule and all—”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Hermione, as Parvati embraced her. “Of course I wouldn’t miss your birthday.”

“It wouldn’t be the first birthday you’ve missed,” Ginny said reprovingly.

“You’re forgetting that Parvati was my roommate for seven _years_ at Hogwarts. This isn’t just any old birthday.”

Parvati beamed, and Hermione felt the slightest twinge of guilt—she had only come to find Ron. “I think I’ll go say hi to Harry. I’ll see you girls in a bit.”

~

As it happened, Ron was conveniently alone. He was standing by himself in front of Padma’s childhood room, swirling a glass of Firewhiskey in one hand as he stared down into it.

“What are you doing alone up here?”

He looked up, startled, and then smiled wistfully. “Hermione. I was just doing some thinking.”

“How unlike you.”

He chuckled, and she took a hesitant step towards him. “How are you, Hermione?”

“Good. Busy.”

Ron nodded. “As usual.”

“How’ve _you_ been?”

“I’ve been great. The shop’s doing really well—”

“So I’ve heard. I just ran into George the other day.”

“Yeah, he mentioned it, actually. He said you looked good.”

There was a pause. Ron eyed her carefully, with an odd expression on his face. She knew this was the time to say something, but the words were caught in her chest.

“What’s wrong?” he suddenly asked.

“Can we talk?”

He put his arm around her waist and guided her into the room behind him. The gesture felt intimate and familiar, as though nothing had changed between them. _Maybe nothing has_ , she could not resist thinking as she leaned into his grasp.

He shut the door and moved to sit beside her on Padma’s bed. “What is it?”

She took a deep breath. “Where’s Lavender?” she asked, and the ghost of a smile on his face evaporated completely. She exhaled. “So it’s true, then.”

“Listen, Hermione—”

“What about _us_ , Ron?”

“Don’t make this any harder—”

“I never thought things were over between us.”

“ _Over?_ ” Ron stared at her as though dumbfounded. “Hermione, they never _started_.”

He ran a hand through his hair and went on, looking extremely frustrated. “I mean, I thought something was finally happening with us after the war, but then you got so busy with your work, and—you could hardly call what we had a relationship.”

“Well, at least we were working in the same building until you—”

“And that’s another thing,” he interrupted. “You were so unhappy when I quit my job to work with George. You barely _spoke_ to me for months afterwards.”

“I know. I was too hard on you. But there was still important work to be done at the Ministry, and I thought you were—”

“—taking the easy way out,” he finished grimly. “Blowing off my responsibility as an Auror. I know. You’ve told me a million times.”

“I didn’t even know you were dating her again,” she said miserably.

“Hermione, when was the last time we’ve even seen each other? The fact is, we know nothing about each other’s lives anymore—because we hardly ever talk. You practically _live_ at the Ministry these days.”

There was no denying the truth of what he said, and yet she couldn’t help wondering: what did it matter how often they spoke? They were _Ron and Hermione_. Hadn’t everyone always assumed they were meant to end up with each other? How many times had Harry said he’d seen it coming all along?

She broke the silence. “Still,” she argued, “how long can you possibly have been seeing her if no one even told me that you were back together?”

“It’s been a few months—”

“A _few months_!”

“I’ve known her since school. You know that.”

“How can this happen so soon?” she cried. “How can you get engaged to her after only a few months, when I’ve been your best friend for nearly ten years and—”

Hermione choked and let her question die unfinished.

“I’m sorry,” Ron said quietly. “I should have told you straight away. I shouldn’t have let you find out from someone else.”

“Ron,” she said, mustering up all the strength that she could, “ _I’m_ sorry. I’ve been busy lately—so terribly busy—and I know I haven’t paid you the attention that you deserve. But I never, ever thought that our story was over. I’ve never wanted to be with anyone but you.”

“Hermione,” he pleaded, but she went on.

“Can you really tell me that you don’t feel anything for me anymore? That after everything we’ve been through, you don’t still love me?”

“Of course I love you, Hermione. I’ll always love you. But—”

“Then call off the wedding,” she said desperately. “There’s still time.”

“—Lavender’s _right_ for me.” Ron gave a heavy sigh. “Things were always so hard with us, weren’t they? We fought all the time, and we never agreed on anything. But Lavender just _gets_ me. She understood why I wanted to work at George’s shop, why I couldn’t handle the stress at the Ministry anymore. Why I needed to relax. And you, you’re different—I mean, you’re not like me, you’ve got different priorities, and you’re incredible, but—well, Lavender’s just a better match for me, is all. Please try to understand.”

Hermione suddenly felt as though her chest might burst. Remembering the time she had saved Lavender’s life during the Battle of Hogwarts, she felt—for the briefest of moments—a dark pang of regret.

The black thought vanished from her mind as quickly as it had formed. Lavender was not the villain.

“She’s your type, isn’t she?” she asked coldly. “Blonde and vacuous?”

“Hermione, don’t.”

“I should have known better. You were stupid enough to go out with her at school; why should things be any different now?”

“She’s sweet, and fun, and supportive; and being with her is… _easy_.”

“You’re an idiot, Ronald,” she shouted, rising suddenly from Padma’s bed. “I always knew you were a moron, but I never imagined that you were so insecure that you couldn’t handle being with a witch who has more than two digits in her I.Q. You’re a bastard for leading me on the way you did, letting me think that things weren’t finished between us—and you’re a fool to marry Lavender Brown, of all the bloody witches you could have proposed to! You’re the _stupidest_ person I’ve ever known!”

Ron rose angrily to face her. “If you feel that way, it’s a good thing we’re not together.”

“You’re a despicable human being. I don’t know what I ever saw in you!”

“Then you won’t mind if I leave,” he said, walking briskly to the door and slamming it behind him as he exited.

~

Hermione stared at the door, furious. Tears welled in her eyes as she realized that, for perhaps the first time in her life, she felt truly helpless. Plunged into a deep pool of despair, the likes of which she had never known before, she could do nothing but resign herself to her fate and drown. How could Ron do this to her _again_? Caught in the throes of frustration, she picked up the closest object nearby—a ceramic figurine of a unicorn—and aimed to throw it where she’d last seen the back of Ron’s head.

“Granger, that’s not even yours.”

She froze.

“Do you really think it’s fair to take out your frustration on Patil’s things?”

Hermione didn’t need to turn around to recognize the owner of the voice behind her. To her mortification, she already knew who it was before she whirled around and stared, aghast, at a very amused Draco Malfoy.

He was sitting in the far corner of the bedroom, lounging on the chair by Padma’s vanity table and appearing far too entertained as he smiled smugly at her. Horrified, Hermione observed that he was somewhat obscured by the thick lilac curtains hanging nearby, but she was still bewildered as to how neither she nor Ron had noticed his presence. Surely he didn’t know how to cast a spell as advanced as the Disillusionment Charm?

“I have to say, Granger, I think this might be the first time we’ve ever been in complete agreement about something. You see, I _also_ think that Weasley’s the stupidest person I’ve ever known.”

“ _What are you doing here, Malfoy?_ ”

“Well, I _was_ trying to smoke in peace, but I ended up enjoying quite the spectacle instead.”

“How _dare_ you eavesdrop on such a private conversation?!”

“Excuse me,” he said, bristling with mock indignation, “but I think it’s hardly eavesdropping if _I_ was here first. It was actually very rude of the two of you to intrude on _my_ privacy.”

“I cannot believe you just sat there and _listened_ while—”

“Oh, believe me, Granger.” A slow, devious smile spread across his lips. “You would have listened, too.”

Too humiliated and upset to think, she turned and headed for the door, but Malfoy called after her.

“It’s for the best, you know. It was always a mystery to me what someone like you could possibly want with someone as dense as the Weasel.”

Hermione paused to look back at him. It occurred to her that this was the first time they’d ever spoken alone.

“You’re the most insufferable witch I’ve ever met,” he said with a smirk, “and Weasley can barely handle a Pygmy Puff. You really thought he’d be man enough to put up with you?”

“I’m not interested in your analysis of—”

“I’m surprised he was even able to keep up in conversation,” he went on, his eyes gleaming mischievously. “Or maybe you preferred it that way, having a pet baboon to sit and take up space while you did all the talking. You always did blabber up a storm in class, like you were afraid of the silence that might ensue if you shut up for even one second—addicted to the sound of your own voice, by the looks of it—”

“Go to hell, Malfoy!”

“I did enjoy your impassioned shouting at him, though. Didn’t know you had it in you.” He cocked his head to the side, looking appraisingly at her. “Then again, I can’t imagine a smart witch like you spending that much time with Weasley and _not_ wanting to scream at him. I suppose it’s about time you got it out. Must have been stressful holding all that in.”

“At least he’s not a foul, disgusting pig of a creature who can’t be bothered to respect other people’s personal privacy!”

“Defending him already? What happened to ‘idiot’ and ‘despicable human being?’”

“I think those terms apply much better to you,” she spat, but he appeared unfazed, grinning broadly at her as she stormed out of the room.

“That’s a shame, Granger. Just three minutes ago it seemed we were on the same page!”

~

She could not leave the party immediately. Her bruised ego wouldn’t allow it. So she stood and smiled and made small talk, doing her best to avoid Ron and feeling numb all the while. Finally, she escaped to the balcony with a glass of champagne and struggled not to cry as she stared out into the London sky.

How had it come to this? She felt as though she were back in sixth year at Hogwarts, sobbing alone in an empty classroom. As far as she’d mistakenly thought that Ron had come since then, he had somehow stayed exactly the same—he was still that same insensitive boy, tearing her fragile dreams to shreds as he carelessly cast her aside for another girl. The _same_ girl. How many times could he break her heart over Lavender?

She was not able to wallow in her misery long before George joined her, looking concerned. “You all right, Hermione?”

She nodded wearily, still looking off into the distance. She knew she should try to make conversation, but the hours of pretending to be fine had taken their toll on her.

“You seem tired,” he said, moving closer. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine, George,” she managed to reply.

“Listen, Hermione, I’ve been meaning to ask you something.” He inhaled sharply. “Would you like to go to dinner with me sometime?”

It took her a moment to process his question. But when she finally turned to gape at him, forgetting her fatigue, her surprised eyes searching his hopeful ones—she suddenly realized that, with the possible exception of Ginny, Ron’s family had never known about their involvement.

Her stomach dropped like a stone. The thought that it had all meant so little—that her relationship with Ron had _not_ been a foregone conclusion, as she had so incorrectly assumed—only served to worsen her pain.

“I know it seems out of the blue,” George added hurriedly. “But I’ve always thought you were special—even back when we were at Hogwarts and I couldn’t express it because you were just one of my baby brother’s friends.” He smiled, and she stared determinedly down at the street below, attempting to ignore the ache that was growing inside of her. “What do you say?”

“I don’t know,” she stammered. “This is all very sudden.”

“Yeah, but we’ve always gotten along, haven’t we?”

When she brought herself to glance at him again, she could see the nervousness concealed behind the easygoing confidence that had always been part of George’s charm. Had he always looked at her like that? It seemed so obvious now. Perhaps she had been so focused on Ron—and the idea of George as Ron’s brother—that she had never noticed how utterly taken he was with her. “It’s just dinner,” he went on. “No harm in giving it a shot, is there?”

Hermione averted her gaze. She was pondering the kindest way to rebuff George’s advances when she suddenly spotted Ron on the street below, standing in front of the Patils’ house and waving at someone. Her eyes wandered across the street and focused on Lavender, who appeared to have just Apparated there.

In her sudden onslaught of panic— _oh God, they were going to come upstairs and she would have to face them_ together, _as a couple_ —she completely forgot that George was standing at her side, still patiently waiting for a response to his invitation. It was only as she turned to flee that she remembered she had left his offer unanswered.

“Oh!” she said, nearly crashing into him. “Right. Um,”—a quick scan of the street confirmed that Ron and Lavender had entered and were on their way up to the party—“I would, er, I would love to go to dinner with you. Yes. Dinner.”

“Really?” George broke into a huge grin. “You would?”

“Yes. Yes, absolutely.”

“That’s great, Hermione, I really—”

“I’ll see you there then,” she interrupted awkwardly, plotting her getaway. “At dinner, I mean. Goodbye. Thank you. Yes.”

And with that graceful end to the conversation, she hastily retreated from the balcony.


	2. Chapter 2

Shame had never been Draco Malfoy’s strong suit. So it should have been no surprise to anyone when he returned to polite society after the war, as thick-skinned as ever, wearing a defiant expression on his face that challenged others to mention his Death Eater past— _go on, I dare you._

His parents fled to France, fearing the way they might be treated by other wizards in their country, but Draco refused to join them. Instead, he resolved never to care what anyone thought of him ever again. He knew that his family’s money and status still held power in the wizarding world. And when he resumed making public appearances, it was that arrogant, brazen look that became his signature.

He had suffered during the war—he had only been a child, after all, forced to see and do things that no adult ever should, things that could never be forgotten—but his trials had hardened, not weakened, him; and he almost preferred being on his own, without his parents nearby. He had grown deeply disillusioned with their beliefs, which he had once so blindly adopted as his own: he could not count the number of times his father had emphatically lectured him on the importance of blood purity, and, as it turned out, he’d been following the orders of a half-blood the entire time. The discovery that the pureblood rhetoric had been meaningless—a mere excuse for the Death Eaters’ cause—had felt like an unspeakable betrayal.

What it came down to was this: Voldemort had been a strong leader when he ruled the Ministry as puppet-master, but he was dead now, and Draco could not have cared less who the new wizard in charge was. All he knew was that he would serve him. The only philosophy that mattered, he had learned, was that of whoever happened to be in power at the time. And Draco would never again follow a renegade if it was not to his own advantage.

~

The first thing she said when she saw him was:

“I don’t remember inviting you.”

“You didn’t,” he responded, with a sickeningly pleasant smile. “Your boss did.”

Hermione’s expression morphed into a grimace. “I don’t need your money, Malfoy.”

“Now, is that really the right attitude for a fundraiser? I doubt your little S.P.E.W. will get many donations with that approach.”

“I’m not interested in donations from war criminals.”

“Careful with that scowl, Granger. It makes you terribly unattractive.”

She opened her mouth to make a retort, but he cut her off. “So I hear you’re seeing George Weasley now. You seem rather stuck on that family, don’t you?”

Too angry to speak, Hermione pursed her lips tightly and glared at him.

“I have to applaud you, though. Not for dating a Weasley—I don’t think anyone would applaud you for that—but for your efficiency. When you want to accomplish something, you certainly get it done.” He smirked devilishly at her. “And _quickly_ , too. Color me impressed.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she fumed, “and I’d appreciate it if you held off on the inappropriate remarks about my personal life.”

“Oh, drop the _act_ , Granger. We both know exactly what I’m talking about. Or are you actually going to pretend that you’re even the least bit interested in this new Weasley of yours?”

She desperately wanted to say something back—something cruel, something _scathing_ —but she was too flustered to think of a sufficiently insulting response. Instead, she simply stared helplessly at him as he went on with fiendish glee.

“It was big news at Patil’s party, you know. Right after you took off—everyone was talking about how he’d finally asked you out. Really knocked the wind out of the younger Weasel’s sails.” When she flushed at that last remark, he added, “That’s what you were going for, isn’t it?”

In spite of herself, she couldn’t help picturing the look on Ron’s face when he’d heard the news.

“It most certainly was not,” she snapped defensively. “Stop acting like you know anything about me.”

He looked at her thoughtfully then, as though he were considering her for the first time, and his lips stretched into a strange—almost _pleased_ —grin. “You know, you’re much more interesting than I’d thought, I’ll give you that. I think I underestimated you.”

Her voice was quiet and dangerously menacing as she replied, “My boss may have invited you, Malfoy, but rest assured that you are far from welcome at my fundraiser. So I’ll thank you to shut up and stay the hell out of my business.”

As she turned to walk away, she could hear him laughing behind her. “And so _quickly_ , too!”

~

There was no avoiding Malfoy. He did not technically work for the Ministry, but he had made a serious effort to become involved in politics ever since the war had ended, and so, it seemed, he was everywhere. Malfoy had redeemed himself publicly through unmatchable contributions to sympathetic causes, and he had redeemed himself privately through strategic donations to key politicians. And now, with his wallet considerably lighter, he was an important figure in government—and thus present at every Ministry meeting of any significance.

Not to mention the charity events. Hermione would never in a million years have imagined she’d run into _Draco Malfoy_ , of all people, at charity event after charity event—but he was unfailingly present at every single one she attended, as well as, she guessed, the ones she did not. Even when she organized a fundraiser for S.P.E.W. _herself_ and made absolutely certain to leave him off the guest list, he still turned up.

And every time she saw him, he looked straight at her and flashed that irritating smirk—the one that said, “ _I know your deepest, darkest secrets. I know everything there is to know about you._ ” If she tried to ignore him, perhaps by pointedly looking elsewhere or by moving to a spot where he was not within her line of sight, he would swoop in on her, ask if she was still with George, and then say something unbearably smug about just how much he admired her _resolve_.

Hermione had to go to the Ministry meetings. She had to go to the charity events. There was no escape to be had from Malfoy’s unique brand of torture.

In the end, nothing had changed since the war. To the Ministry, Malfoy’s money and status counted for more than anything Hermione had accomplished during the war. After all, she was not Harry Potter—just another Hogwarts student who had followed him in battle. People were willing to turn a blind eye to the scar of the Dark Mark if the Death Eater in question had paid his dues. And while it was no longer acceptable to make prejudiced remarks about Muggle-born witches and wizards, the fact was that purebloods still received more respect from wizarding society. The only difference was that that respect now needed to be silent in nature.

Perhaps there had been one significant change, after all: she felt as though she had lost her friends. Harry was living a glamorous life as a celebrity Auror, and Ron was having the time of his life making money off of George’s silly inventions—while she was working her arse off in the Department of Magical Creatures trying to get the voices of the disadvantaged heard and getting nowhere.

The worst part was that with his fame and his fortune, Harry could easily have helped. But he had never taken her causes seriously, and they were no longer close enough that she could easily ask for his support—ever since things had gone sour between her and Ron, Ginny had developed an irrational fear of Harry and Hermione spending time alone together, and she hardly ever saw him anymore. Furthermore, it had become clear that when it came down to her versus Ron, Harry would never take her side.

Hermione sometimes took George to the charity fundraisers she so dreaded, but more often, she went alone. And that was how she felt: alone. So she put her nose to the grindstone and focused on her work, churning out meticulously-written policy papers and proposals for Ministry reform.

But she was still young. And she was Muggle-born, which meant she had no connections to speak of. It was not an easy thing to be a Muggle-born climbing the ladder that was the Ministry’s hierarchy—Hermione could count on one hand the number of Muggle-borns who worked there. What did _they_ know, officials whispered to one another behind closed doors, about wizarding society? Who were they to try and change it? She struggled not to let it discourage her as proposal after proposal went unnoticed.

When she saw Malfoy strutting around the Ministry, smirking and posturing as though he owned the place, she wondered what exactly it was they had been fighting for in the war. She found that she could no longer remember.

~

Mrs. Weasley was beyond delighted when George brought Hermione to their next family dinner.

“Hermione!” she beamed, squeezing her into a tight embrace as she welcomed her inside. “I’m so glad you came. It’s been _ages_ since we last saw you!”

“I’m sorry, I’ve been so busy with work—”

“Not to worry, dear. We’re just happy to see you again.”

The unspoken truth was that Mrs. Weasley was _particularly_ happy to see her in the new role of George’s girlfriend. It was not only that she considered Hermione a worthy love interest for one of her sons, but she had worried terribly about George’s loneliness ever since Fred had died, and she was relieved that he had finally found a significant other (and such a suitable one at that). So she spent the night positively fawning over Hermione, asking her hundreds of questions about her work at the Ministry and making sure there was food on her plate at all times throughout the evening.

Even without his mother fussing over her, Ron was furious at Hermione and certainly took no pains to hide the fact. He barely spoke to her once the entire night, though he did send a steady stream of jealous glances in her and George’s direction. Ginny, who had been cold to her ever since she had fought with Ron about his career change, spent the dinner eyeing her suspiciously, while Harry clearly felt far too awkward to address the obvious tension and did everything he could to ignore it.

George, for his part, seemed as blissfully oblivious as his mother to the hostile environment around them. He was in his element: happy to be at home with his family and proud to show off his new girlfriend; and he spent the evening teasing Ron as mercilessly as usual and cracking jokes that Hermione laughed at just a little louder than was necessary. Sometimes, when she could feel Ron’s eyes burning holes in their backs, she would make a small, affectionate gesture—reaching out to gently touch George’s arm, or wiping an imaginary crumb off his lip. And then she would have to fight the urge to look back at Ron and enjoy the satisfaction of seeing his face contorted with rage.

For all the calculated displays of affection, she and George had not actually spent all that much time together. She was still very busy with work—her undisputed top priority—and, more to the point, she had not quite wanted anything too serious to develop between them. He was sweet and funny and charming, and Hermione did like him—but Malfoy had been more on the mark than she’d wanted to admit when it came to her genuine romantic interest in George as a boyfriend.

But how could she resist the opportunity to stay near Ron and give him a taste of his own medicine? As she and George left the Burrow together that night, she smiled radiantly in Ron’s direction and hoped that, for the first time, she had finally managed to hurt him as much as he’d hurt her.

~

Hermione was beginning to regret having come alone to the Ministry Ball. George was out of town on a business meeting, and she had thought that it would not matter whether she had a date or not.

She had been wrong.

The Ministry was holding a date auction—all proceeds were to go to the Auror Office—and all the single female employees, it seemed, were lining up to be auctioned off. The whole concept was outdated and sexist and terribly offensive, but even worse was the fact that it left Hermione virtually alone in a sea of couples. They stood around the beautifully decorated Atrium in pairs and chatted loudly about children and vacation plans and whatever else it was couples talked about, while Hermione faced an endless stream of questions about where George was tonight and did her best to ignore the icy glares that Ginny was shooting her over Harry’s shoulder.

The band started playing a song with an upbeat tempo, and most of the couples stopped gossiping about upcoming weddings long enough to make their way to the dance floor. Hermione was ready to leave. She downed another glass of champagne as discreetly as she could and watched as Jenkins took his place behind the podium.

“Might I have everyone’s attention, please? Thank you. Ladies and gentlemen, we are about to start this evening’s date auction!”

The crowd cheered. Hermione held back a sigh and began composing a mental to-do list for the following week (she had finished this week’s while listening to Susan Bones’ fiancé’s interminable chattering about their new flat). Jenkins prattled on about the rules of the auction and then introduced the first “lot,” a young woman Hermione recognized as a member of the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad. The girl blushed furiously as a co-worker bid 200 Galleons and then again as another outbid him, eventually winning with an offer of 250.

She still needed to get out that memo about anti-discrimination measures. There was that unfinished analysis of the efficiency of the Office for House-Elf Relocation; and she would also have to prepare for the visit of the head of Germany’s Vampire Liaison Office, who was stopping by London that week. Charlie had asked for her support in filing a request to bring three Norwegian Ridgebacks into the country, and she had yet to respond to his owl.

As someone named Emily Appleton sold for 320 Galleons, Hermione suddenly remembered that her mother was having a family dinner next weekend. She grew restless. There was so much work to be done and so little time in which to do it. Would anyone notice if she snuck out early?

She began edging cautiously towards a nearby fireplace, hoping to disappear unnoticed, when a loud whooshing sound alerted her to the fact that it was already in use. Startled, she took a couple steps back—and then took many more when she saw who it was that had just arrived late to the ball.

Ron and Lavender stepped together out of the gilded fireplace, fixing their robes as they entered the lobby. Hermione had not known they were coming—Harry, who must have invited them, had neglected to mention that little detail. Yet another reason it had been a mistake to come alone. Would the humiliation never end? Spitefully blaming Harry for not having warned her, she backed away slowly, so as to not draw any attention to herself, while rejoining the crowd and hiding amongst the masses.

Leticia Snelling was bought for 175 Galleons; Cho Chang went for a cool 600. Hermione watched as Ron guided Lavender into the room, as they greeted other Hogwarts alums, as his hand snaked in a disgustingly sensual way around her hip and they whispered, playful and laughing, into each other’s ears about the auction. _That should be me, standing there with him. It was supposed to be me._ She felt, at first, an uncontrollable urge to sob—but the urge was soon replaced by an overwhelming numbness, and she could no longer remember where she was or what she was doing. Lost in her thoughts, she was barely aware of the auction continuing around her until Ron began whooping loudly and she realized that Dean had just won a 400-Galleon date with Padma.

When Hermione finally tore her eyes off Ron long enough to look around at her surroundings, she suddenly spotted Malfoy, whom she had not noticed before, standing near the back of the Atrium and observing her calmly. Had she felt less numb from exhaustion, the embarrassment of having been caught tearfully gawking at Ron might have been too great for her to handle. But, as it was, she simply lowered her gaze and thought that perhaps it was better that it was Malfoy and not someone else who had seen her in her moment of weakness. Malfoy, after all, had learned nothing new—and he already mocked her mercilessly every time he saw her. Yes, better Malfoy than someone else.

But when she glanced back up at him, it struck her that his usual amused smirk was absent; instead, he was wearing an expression on his face that she had never seen before and could not quite place. And then, as Jenkins called Mandy Brocklehurst to the stage, Malfoy turned to face the stage and interrupted him to announce loudly,

“I’d like to make a bid.”

All heads swiveled towards the back of the lobby. Malfoy’s strange expression had vanished, and as he leaned against a pillar, he looked every bit his typical impertinent self. Hermione was somewhat surprised by this declaration of interest—Mandy Brocklehurst was not, in her opinion, all that pretty—but there was nothing extraordinary about the utterly characteristic way in which he had casually disregarded the protocol of the proceedings.

Jenkins, however, seemed taken aback by his impatience. “Er—very well, Mr. Malfoy,” he replied. “I was about to ask for an opening bid of—”

“10,000 Galleons.”

A collective gasp went through the room. Mandy Brocklehurst’s jaw had now fallen halfway to the floor, and Jenkins was staring at him as through he were out of his mind. “Well—that’s certainly _very_ generous, Mr. Malfoy,” he stammered. “I’m sure the Auror Office will be quite grateful for the donation.”

Several Aurors began to applaud, and soon others joined in. The crowd was clapping enthusiastically and murmuring in pleasant surprise as Jenkins continued, “I doubt anyone can match that offer, so I think it’s safe to say that Miss Brocklehurst is—”

“My bid is for Hermione Granger.”

The room went silent.

 _This must be what Harry goes through all the time_ , Hermione thought as she suddenly experienced the discomfiting sensation of having all eyes on her. The exception was Jenkins, whose eyes looked about ready to pop of his head as he began to sputter, “But—but—Miss Granger is not _participating_ in the auction.”

“My bid is 10,000 Galleons,” Malfoy repeated calmly, “for Hermione Granger.”

She wondered briefly if she were dreaming—if this were some bizarre nightmare caused by too much time spent at the office and not enough sleep. It was the only explanation that made any sense. And yet it all felt so _real_ that she could do nothing else besides stand there and attempt to conceal her bafflement as she puzzled out the inexplicable riddle of Malfoy’s intentions.

Jenkins now appeared too shocked to speak. “She isn’t single!” someone in the crowd called out. Malfoy didn’t so much as bat an eyelash. 

“Yes,” said Jenkins, “unfortunately, I’m afraid Miss Granger is not single. But there is certainly no lack of equally lovely young women who have yet to be auctioned—”

“No, thank you,” Malfoy said crisply.

“But—Mr. Malfoy—there’s simply nothing to be done; Miss Granger isn’t—perhaps you’d like to bid on Miss Brocklehurst instead—”

“If I had wanted to bid on Miss Brocklehurst, I would have done so.”

“Please, I’ll have to ask you to consider making a bid for one of the other women. A date with Miss Granger is out of—”

“All right,” said Malfoy, completely unfazed. “If a date is out of the question, I’ll settle for a dance.” He turned to look at her, and she tried to remain composed as he continued, almost as if directly to her, “I think no one will object to 10,000 Galleons for a dance.”

A million thoughts raced through Hermione’s mind as she stared blankly at Malfoy, but to her own amazement, the one that rose to the forefront was:

_At the very least, I would not be standing here alone, hiding from Ron._

“I suppose—I suppose if Miss Granger _agrees_ ,” Jenkins relented, appearing both bewildered and defeated at the same time.

Later on, Hermione could not recall exactly why she had lost all her senses and agreed to dance with Draco Malfoy in front of the entire Ministry. Perhaps it had been the stress of the moment. Perhaps it had been the champagne. Perhaps it had been temporary madness brought on by invisible Nargles.

All she remembered was a blur of shocked gasps and whispers—the vague idea that it was a lot of money for a good cause, that it was _just a dance_ —and the incredibly self-satisfied smile Malfoy wore as insanity overtook her and she nodded her acceptance with as neutral an expression as she could manage.

She had no memory of the rest of the auction except that, when it finally ended and the band started up again, Harry appeared out of nowhere and pulled her aside. “I don’t know what he’s playing at, but you don’t have to do this. It’s not your responsibility.”

“I think she knows that, Potter. Now, if you’d kindly step aside.”

They both turned to see Malfoy approaching. Livid, Harry whipped back around to face her again and continued, “You’re not under any obligation to the Ministry or the Auror Office—”

“Excuse me. May I?” Malfoy stepped smoothly in front of Harry and extended a hand towards her.

She hesitated. She didn’t trust Malfoy any farther than she could throw him, and she, like Harry, had no idea what he was up to. But then, out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed Ginny and Ron and Lavender, watching them from afar and awaiting Harry’s return; and she knew that she could not—would not—go with him. She looked back at Harry, who was now turning an unpleasant shade of purple, and swallowed hard.

“I’ll see you later,” she said quietly, and he stared at her in disbelief as she took Malfoy’s hand and let him lead her away.

She had no idea what to say to him, a problem she solved by neither speaking nor looking at him as they walked out onto the dance floor. He tried to pull her close and she pushed him away, stiffly keeping her distance as she placed a reluctant hand on his shoulder. Undeterred, he pulled her towards him with greater force and firmly grasped her waist to keep her in place.

“Stop that,” she snapped. “Everyone is staring.”

“Oh, please. When has _that_ ever stopped you from doing something?”

“Move your hand any lower and I will personally ensure you never walk again.”

Malfoy chuckled. “Don’t be so hard on me, Granger. I’m behaving.”

He slid his other hand down her arm to take hold of hers, and it was warm and oddly comforting as it wrapped around her fingers. His face was so close that she could feel his breath blowing across the wisps of hair that had fallen out of her chignon. She angled her head in the other direction to avoid it.

They danced in silence until he asked, “Aren’t you going to question my motives?”

“I’m assuming this is some twisted scheme intended to publicly humiliate me.”

“To _humiliate_ you?” he said incredulously. “How is bidding an exorbitant sum just to dance with you a humiliation?”

“I won’t purport to know how your sick mind works, Malfoy.”

“Then I’ll tell you,” he said, jerking her arm upwards so that she would be forced to look up at him. “I’m not one to pass up opportunities.”

She turned away again. “I couldn’t care less what your reasons are, as long as you make the contribution you promised.”

“So you aren’t even the least bit flattered?”

“No,” sniffed Hermione.

“Then why are you dancing with me?”

“It’s for charity,” she said primly, and he burst out laughing.

“I like you, Granger. I think we’re very much alike.”

“ _Alike?!_ How _dare_ you—”

“You know, it hurts that you’re so insulted by that.”

“—for one thing, I’m not a slimy, evil, pointy-faced little—”

“I’ve been watching you, you know. I see how determined you are to get things done, at the Ministry and elsewhere. You aren’t as scrupulous as you pretend to be, are you? Admit it, Granger. You’ll do anything to get what you want.”

“I don’t think you even know what scruples _are_ ,” she said indignantly.

“I know what they are. I just don’t happen to have any.”

Caught off guard by his bluntness, Hermione looked up and found him watching her intently. His face grew serious as he said, “We really are more alike than you think.”

When she started to argue, he cut her off quietly. “Think about it. Be honest with yourself—why are you dancing with me?”

Her cheeks suddenly felt very hot, and she quickly averted her gaze. Her eyes landed across the lobby, where Lavender appeared to be consoling a now sulking Ron, and she tried to ignore the feeling of triumph that bubbled up inside her. Malfoy tightened his grip on her waist as he leaned in and whispered, “Relax, Granger. I like it, you know. The fire—I like that about you. I really do.”


	3. Chapter 3

“I saw your memo about anti-discrimination measures.”

Hermione tried not to jerk in surprise. How had he snuck up behind her so quietly?

“It wasn’t meant for you,” she replied, her eyes fixed firmly ahead of her on the Minister. “It was meant for those of us that actually work here.”

“I saw it in Clemens’ rubbish bin,” he said dryly.

Refusing to turn around or appear affected in any way, she clenched her teeth together and said under her breath, “As much as I enjoy your incessant taunting, Malfoy, I’m actually trying to pay attention to what the Minister has to say.”

“He’s not going to say anything about that memo, in case you were hoping against all hope. I saw that it’s not even on the agenda for your department’s meeting—”

No longer able to contain herself, she whirled around in fury and glared up at him. “What is the matter with you? What perverse joy do you get out of constantly provoking me?”

“I’m not provoking you, Granger. I’m just interested in your work. So when I saw your memo in Clemens’ rubbish bin, I fished it out and read it. You make some very valid points, you know. It’s not a bad memo—if a bit self-serving.”

She flushed a little at that, and the corner of his lip twitched upwards. “Let’s talk after the speech,” he whispered.

The second the Minister was done speaking, Hermione bolted from the room as though chased by an angry troll. She wove her way through the crowd, walking as briskly towards the lifts as she could without crashing into anyone. But when she finally reached them, she heard telltale footsteps resounding behind her and knew that he had followed.

Cursing his long legs, she said loftily, “I have nothing to say to you.”

“But _I_ have something to say to _you_.” He stepped beside her. “I’m here to offer my help.”

Hermione stared at him. “Your help with what?”

“With what you propose in your memo.”

“ _You_ want to help protect Muggle-borns against discrimination?”

“You’re right that the old laws are insufficient and outdated. But you’re not going to be able to introduce new ones without the support of the higher-ups. Like Clemens.” He casually flicked a piece of lint off his dark robes. “I can get that support for you.”

She needed a moment to take in exactly what he was offering, and in that moment, he seemed unable to hold back a smile. “You need me, Granger. Your issue’s on no one’s mind but your own right now. I might be the only one who actually read that memo. But with me behind you, it could be on the Minister’s desk by _tomorrow_. Don’t you want that kind of influence?”

Unable to process what she was hearing, she searched his expression for signs that this was all an elaborately conceived joke, but found none. “What do you want in return?” she asked suspiciously.

He laughed out loud. “So _distrustful!_ What makes you think I want anything in return?”

“You expect me to believe that you’re genuinely interested in Muggle-born rights?”

“All right, so it’s not a topic that interests me much. But it interests _you_ , Granger, and I can help. Don’t you want to shape the direction of the future?” he asked, looking as though the idea amused him greatly. “Isn’t that why you spend your days toiling away at the Ministry, trying to change the world?”

Hermione was unsure whether he was mocking her goals or dangling them in front of her in order to seduce her into some evil trap. Ignoring his questions, she asked again, “What do you want from me?”

“I’m rather hurt, Granger. I wasn’t _going_ to ask for anything in return, although now that you’re responding this way—”

“Bullshit, Malfoy. Tell me what you want.”

Malfoy raised an eyebrow at her language. “All right. If we’re going to be blunt about it—dinner.”

“Dinner?” she repeated, perplexed.

“Yes, dinner. I want you go to dinner with me.”

“Like—like a _date?_ ”

“Yes. I’ll help you with your little project, and then I’ll take you out to dinner. Come to think of it, there’s really no downside for you, is there?”

Hermione did not attempt to hide her horror as she gaped at him. “Malfoy, did you lose a bet or something?”

“Don’t act so shocked,” he said reproachfully. “Would I have bid so scandalously high just a few weeks ago to dance with a woman I wasn’t attracted to?”

“I’m serious. I don’t know what sort of mind game you’re trying to play with me, but—”

“Granger, if I were trying to destroy you, I would be doing it in far more insidious ways than advancing your career and offering to take you out to dinner.”

She looked at him shrewdly for a minute, then said, “Whatever it is you’re after, I don’t need your help. Corruption and bribery may be the only tools _you’re_ familiar with, but I won’t demean my cause by resorting to your sordid tactics.”

“Don’t be too proud for your own good,” he replied disdainfully. “There’s no pride in not getting anywhere with your ambitions, and I know how ambitious you are. You _need_ my support.”

“I do not,” she started to argue, but he interrupted her.

“Oh, really? How’s that war hero status treating you these days? Does it count for anything at all anymore, or is the only record of your adolescent bravery a Chocolate Frog card with your name on it? The Ministry has a shorter memory than a _goldfish_ , Granger, and you know that better than I do. The only thing they understand is money.”

Hermione’s mouth snapped shut.

She hated Draco Malfoy. She _hated_ him. She hated his stupid smirk and his cold, mocking eyes and his ridiculous almost-white hair. She hated his arrogance, his sneering irreverence for anything decent and virtuous, his relentless insistence on cutting straight to the ugliest heart of a matter—especially when it was the cold and biting truth. He was right: she was nothing at the Ministry. She was a hard worker on the path headed straight to nowhere; while Malfoy, in spite of all the evil, unspeakable things he and his family had done during the war, remained the elite of wizarding society, with money and status that he did not deserve but which unlocked every door he wished to enter. He was a murderer, a bigot, a common criminal; and yet he had clout with the Ministry that she, a war hero, could never hope to have, all because he had been fortunate enough to be born to the right pureblood name. She hated him. And she hated that he would not leave her alone.

He knew how badly she wanted the reform, how much she cared about the issue. And he knew that, alone, she didn’t stand a chance of getting it. But as much as Hermione wanted her memo in the hands of the Minister of Magic, she could never live with giving Malfoy the satisfaction of knowing that she needed him—that she was in his debt. She refused to validate his existence by acknowledging that somehow, even though Voldemort had lost the war, Draco Malfoy had still come out on top.

Malfoy seemed to read the hatred etched in her eyes, because he said, more softly than before, “I’m not the one who corrupted the system. I’m just not stupid enough to try and swim against the current.”

“Your way might be easier,” she said, her mouth so tight that it was a miracle she could get the words out, “but I want no part of it. There are some things worth fighting for.”

“Exactly. I thought this issue was one of them.”

“Don’t try to use my arguments against—”

“One dinner. You’ll never have to speak to me again—unless, of course, you want to. I’m told I make devastatingly charming company.”

“I have a boyfriend,” she replied dismissively.

“A boyfriend you’re only dating to make someone else jealous,” he scoffed. “That doesn’t count. Tell me, does he know yet that you’re in love with his brother? Or are you planning on hiding it from him indefinitely?”

Seething with barely controlled rage, Hermione hissed, “I thought I told you to keep your pale, pointy nose _out_ of my personal affairs—”

“I can hardly refrain from discussing your dysfunctional love life when you’re using it as an excuse not to have dinner with me.”

“Since when are you so interested in me?!”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Malfoy, looking vaguely irritated. “Why else would I have been paying so much attention to you recently?”

“Have you _lost your mind?_ You’ve never been anything but intolerably rude to me!”

“I’ve always thought you were gorgeous, Granger,” he replied quietly, and Hermione was stunned to find that his expression was quite serious. “And I’ve realized recently that I want someone who can keep up with me, someone who’s my equal in strength, intelligence, and ambition—maybe even a challenge. I don’t know anyone else who matches that description.”

She stared at him in disbelief before saying, as calmly as she could, “Malfoy. Have you taken a spill and hit your head on something? Because you seem to have forgotten that I’m a Mudblood—a fact you remembered quite well at school, where you spent years tormenting me about it.” 

“I was a boy then,” he said simply, “a stupid one, and I thought very differently about things because I didn’t know any better. I couldn’t care less now about your bloodline. If anything, it would be good publicity for me to be seen dating a Muggle-born witch, let alone a Muggle-born war hero—the ultimate redemption, really. But that’s not why I want you, Granger. I want you because you intrigue me. I don’t know a witch who’s ever impressed me as much as you have.” He paused before adding, “Even when we were at Hogwarts.”

Hermione looked at him—at how cool and collected he was, how completely unapologetic—and had never hated him more.

“So that’s what it was. Redemption.” Of course. He was trying to make headlines—by bidding extravagantly on her at the ball, by backing her legislation proposals, by going out with her in public. He was keeping himself in the limelight. Besides, she was a useful connection for him; and he thought he could buy her the same way he’d bought everyone else, regardless of how terribly he’d treated her ever since they were schoolchildren. She laughed darkly and fought the urge to slap him as hard as she had back in their third year.

Malfoy seemed mystified. “I just told you that that _isn’t_ why—”

Infuriated by his boldness and his unrepentant attitude, she struggled to keep her voice down as she cut him off. “No. Absolutely not. How dare you insult me by even _asking_ me to go on a date with you, when you once made my life a living hell? You’re shameless and disgusting and utterly repulsive—and _selfish_ , trying to use me as a publicity stunt—”

The lift arrived, and Hermione stepped inside. “I don’t care who you know at the Ministry, or how much blood-stained gold you have in your family’s Gringotts vaults,” she said contemptuously. “Don’t ever speak to me again.”

~

A woman who had been more in love with George would have swooned at the sight of him playing with little Teddy Lupin. Even Hermione could not suppress a smile as she watched him entertain the boy, the both of them decked out in tuxedoes; there was no denying in that moment just how adorable George could be. She remarked that she did care a great deal for him after all—more than she’d previously thought. He was thoughtful and clever and never failed to make her laugh, and she was well aware that she hadn’t appreciated him nearly enough. He treated her better than Ron ever had, and with Ron getting married that same day—perhaps it was time for her to stop making the comparison.

He caught her eye and grinned impishly at her when he saw the smile on her face. Putting Teddy down, he instructed him to go find Harry and then made his way over to her.

“Having fun?” he asked, slipping his arm around her shoulders. They watched together as Teddy hobbled over to his godfather.

“He looks so cute in his little tux,” said Hermione adoringly, and George looked at her as though slighted.

“Not as cute as me, I hope?”

She laughed. “Of course not.”

George reached into the pocket of his robes and pulled out a small velvet box. “Here,” he said. “I’ve got something for you.” When she looked up at him in surprise, he flashed her a complacent smile. “Thought you might want to open it before the wedding.”

Hermione didn’t need any more reminding about the dreaded wedding, which she was only attending in order to hide how much it still hurt her to even hear Ron’s and Lavender’s names mentioned in the same sentence. She had run into Ron earlier that day in the Burrow kitchen, and they had awkwardly danced around the subject in spite of the fact that he was already dressed in his bridegroom attire. It had taken every ounce of strength she had in her body to fight the urge to ask him: _Is this really happening, then?_ The effort had drained her, and by the time he’d escaped with his glass of milk, she had never felt more exhausted in her life.

She opened the box with weary fingers. Inside was a pair of sparkling diamond earrings, large in size and glittering ostentatiously; and as she drew in a sharp breath, she could practically feel George beaming at her.

“Well, what do you think?” he asked, unable to conceal his excitement.

Hermione found herself speechless—a relatively rare occurrence for her. As she stared down at the box in her hand, she saw for the first time just how serious George was about her. Waves of guilt came crashing down on her all at once, and she suddenly couldn’t stop her eyes from welling up with tears.

“Do you like them?” he asked, and she nodded dumbly.

Misinterpreting her display of emotion, George leaned forward and took her in his arms. “I know you usually wear jewelry that’s a bit more understated, but Verity told me that if I was going to buy a girl earrings, I’d better take it all the way and get the real deal.”

“George,” she stammered, “you shouldn’t have. I—they’re—they’re beautiful, but—I can’t accept these.”

“Of course you can. In fact—” he reached out and removed the earrings from the box—“you can wear them right now. To the wedding.” He placed them in her hand.

“No, I can’t,” she said, pressing them forcefully into his palm. “It’s too much, it—thank you, really—it’s unbelievably sweet of you, but—

“And that’s exactly why I bought them: to trick you into thinking I’m unbelievably sweet.” When he saw her expression, he frowned slightly. “Do you not like them?”

“No,” she said hastily, “that’s not—I love them; really, I do. I just—thank you so much for the gesture, but—I can’t take these, George.”

“What are you on about?” he started to ask, but just then, Harry wandered over with Teddy in his arms.

“Bill says we’re leaving soon. You guys ready?”

Hermione nodded, and they turned to follow Harry into the house. As they walked, George took her hand and gave it a squeeze. When she glanced at him, he winked and pulled away—leaving two earrings nestled in her palm, the posts digging uncomfortably into her skin.

She closed her fist tightly around them and relished the pain they brought her, wincing as she clung to the slightest semblance of justice in her twisted world.

~

“She looks like a bloody meringue,” whispered George as Lavender swept past them.

Hermione shushed him, but she had to fight back a grim smile. Lavender was floating down the aisle in a poufy white confection that could only be described as—well, a giant, frilly meringue. George was certain to tell her later exactly what her dress resembled, and Hermione looked forward to being there when he did. And when he inevitably turned to his brother to add some predictable jokes about how incredible it was that Ron had found a witch willing to marry him, Hermione would be more than prepared to throw in a few stinging barbs of her own.

The guests murmured appreciatively as Lavender passed on her father’s arm, seemingly attempting to stifle giggles beneath her veil. Ron was standing at the front of the marquee with Harry, watching her with an almost goofily slack-jawed expression as she approached, and it occurred to Hermione that Ron had never once looked at her that way. Harry’s eyes darted uncertainly in her direction, and she tried her best to smile back at him but found that it was hard to.

George’s hand found hers, and she bit back her tears as the wedding unfolded before them. It was tragic and grotesque and heartbreaking—and yet she could not bring herself to look away.

When the bride and groom had finally exchanged their vows before their friends and family, George leaned over and said quietly into Hermione’s ear, “I think we’re next.”

~

She hadn’t planned on breaking up with George that night.

Hermione had intended to dote on him during the wedding. She had carefully practiced the smile she was going to wear as she danced the night away with him—the same smile she would plaster on her face throughout the ceremony. They were going to be the spitting image of a young couple that was happily in love.

But Hermione cared too much for George to let him go on thinking they might one day marry. She had never loved him. He deserved better.

George had changed since Fred’s death. He had never quite returned to his former carefree self, and his loneliness in the absence of his twin was palpable. He was getting older, and he had developed the strong desire to settle down and start a new family.

Hermione had never meant to figure into that plan.

So when he whispered his intentions into her ear, she could no longer fake a smile and pretend that all was well in their relationship. Before they ever reached the reception, Hermione took George aside, pressed his earrings into his hand, and left.

Mrs. Weasley witnessed the exchange from afar and watched with a heartbroken expression as Hermione fled the wedding. 

_I’m sorry_ , she wanted to say to her. _Your youngest son has turned me into a monster._


	4. Chapter 4

Hermione wandered the streets of London aimlessly, haunted by the look on George’s face. She had never seen Diagon Alley so deserted. The cobblestones reflected the orange glow of the streetlamps and stretched out into the night uninterrupted, like a glistening sea of fiery hot coals.

Wracked with guilt, she gazed unseeingly into store windows as she passed, ignoring their poorly lit displays. She did not see the gleaming gold cauldrons or the neat stacks of books or the chess sets charmed to play on their own. She saw only George staring back at her, the ever-present mischievous twinkle in his eye conspicuously absent, as her memory of their conversation played over and over again in her mind. Even to her own ears, her voice had sounded desperate and pleading as she’d rambled on about their differences. “I’m—I’m too uptight,” she’d stammered. “I live to follow rules, and you live to break them. I would crush your spirit.”

And she’d gone on, knowing full well that his spirit was crushed already—hating herself for every second of pain she was causing him.

“We have such different plans for the future. I’m insanely ambitious about things that you could never bring yourself to care about, and—and—I’m sorry, George. I’m so, so sorry.”

She hated how much she had sounded like Ron: babbling about differences, giving poor excuses for hearts that had been recklessly broken. She wanted to believe that she was better than him—that at least, unlike Ron, she _had_ been sorry—but she knew that her regret had come too late, when there was no longer a way to spare George the grief of yet another loss of someone dear to him. She had always been someone who prided herself on responsibility. Where was that Hermione now?

The heel of her stiletto got jammed between two stones for what seemed like the millionth time that evening, and she was forced to stop walking. Cursing the cobblestone streets as she dislodged herself, she looked up and noticed that she was standing in front of a bistro.

Suddenly feeling the urge to drink herself senseless, she walked in and approached the maître d’.

“A table for one, please.”

“I’m sorry,” a cold voice said from her left. “We’re all full.”

Hermione turned to see Felicia Norbury, the wealthy and notoriously conservative proprietor, watching her with a tight-lipped smile. She glanced around the restaurant: there was no dearth of empty tables.

“It seems you still have plenty of room.”

“I’m afraid you’re mistaken,” Felicia replied icily. “You’ll have to dine elsewhere.”

All around the silent room, people were staring—their eyes no kinder than hers.

Hermione had heard about this. She had heard rumors that this sort of thing was happening, quietly, in nooks and crannies around wizarding London; but she had never experienced it firsthand. A sickening feeling began to grow in her stomach as she noticed that all the customers in the bistro were purebloods. She fixed her gaze on Felicia Norbury and kept her chin as high as humanly possible.

“It’s against the law to turn away a paying customer.”

“I don’t care what you or the Ministry say,” the woman said maliciously, her eyes gleaming with contempt. “We don’t allow Mudbloods here.”

“Get out,” a voice called from far away, while another chimed in—“Hear, hear.”

Hermione had never felt more alone. Mustering up as much false confidence as she could, she said sharply, “I won’t stand for this. I’ll see to it that the Ministry shuts down this godforsaken dump before the week is out.”

“Won’t change a thing,” Felicia said, smirking viciously. “Your lot of filth might have won the war, but here in polite society, not a thing will change. You’ll never be more than a Muggle playing witch with a wand.”

Hermione’s wand hand flew to the pocket of her robes, but before she could fling the first of many hexes Felicia Norbury’s way, someone had jumped in front of her.

“I think that’s enough, Felicia.”

Hermione, too surprised to move, found herself staring up at the back of Draco Malfoy’s head.

“She threatened to shut the place down, Draco,” whined Felicia, looking somewhat deflated.

“What kind of businesswoman refuses a willing customer?” he snapped. “And a government official at that? You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

“I don’t need her money!”

“Just like you don’t need to stay open?” He turned to look at Hermione for the first time. “Come on, Granger. Let’s go find a more respectable establishment. I won’t be returning to _this_ hovel.”

She was too stunned to speak as Malfoy grabbed her by the arm and began pulling her towards the exit. But before he dragged her out the door, she managed to turn around, point her finger menacingly at Felicia Norbury, and say in her most threatening tone, “This won’t be the last you see of me.”

~

Malfoy led her swiftly around the next corner. He seemed to have no intention of letting go of her arm, and he walked so briskly that Hermione was practically jogging in order to keep up.

“Listen,” she said uneasily, “I appreciate your attempt at gallantry, Malfoy, but there’s really no need for us to go anywhere together. Thank you, though, for—”

He abruptly stopped walking. As Hermione peered through the darkness, she suddenly realized where they were.

“Is this Knockturn Alley?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said matter-of-factly, as though nothing out of the ordinary had occurred in the last five minutes. He gestured to an unmarked door in front of them. “I rather like this pub. Best place to go for privacy.”

“I—I don’t think—”

He leaned forward and yanked open the door before basically shoving her inside. A shady-looking wizard behind the bar nodded at Malfoy and led them to a table in the corner.

“What’ll you have to drink?” Malfoy asked her casually.

She hesitated. She had been craving a glass or two (or five) of red currant rum, but uncomfortable was not a strong enough word to describe how she felt about drinking with Draco Malfoy.

“I’m fine, thank you.”

“Something to eat, then?”

“No.”

Malfoy looked at her with amusement. “Then what were you doing in Norbury’s restaurant?”

When she refused to order anything, he asked for a bottle of Valens’ Vipertooth blend, a notoriously expensive and particularly strong Firewhiskey. She wondered idly if he was planning on drinking the entire bottle, but he seemed to read her mind and explained, “They don’t serve it by the glass.”

They were the only customers in the pub aside from two men huddled in another corner, wearing dark cloaks and speaking so quietly that it seemed they were under a _Muffliato_. As Hermione glanced around, she had the feeling that the place prided itself on discretion—and that it catered to the kind of clientele who needed it. Once they had settled in and the alcohol had arrived, Malfoy poured himself a glass and leaned back in his chair.

“So why are you all dressed up?”

She had forgotten that she was wearing dress robes. “Oh,” she said, startled, looking down at her shimmering turquoise robes and attempting in vain to cover herself. “Ron’s wedding.”

“Shouldn’t you be there now?” he asked, with a knowing look.

She nodded. “Theoretically.”

“So what happened?”

Hermione sighed. “I broke up with George,” she found herself saying, before she’d fully considered the wisdom of discussing her personal life with Malfoy.

“Really?” He could not hide the trace of a smile that formed as his lip curled upwards. “Stealing the newlyweds’ thunder on their big day?”

“It wasn’t like that.”

“So what _was_ it like?” he asked, now openly wearing a pleased smirk.

“It was miserable. I hadn’t planned on it, and then I couldn’t stay there afterwards, so—I just _left_ him there.” She reached out, grabbed his bottle of Firewhiskey, and took a swig.

“I thought you weren’t going to drink.”

“Well, I was mistaken,” she retorted, slamming the bottle down on the table.

“All right,” he said, eyebrows raised. “We’ll get you a glass.”

“I don’t know what’s happened to me, Malfoy.” She took a deep breath and tried to hold back the tears welling up in her eyes, but found it hopeless. “I used to be an idealist, you know? I was so confident—I thought I could do anything, that I could change the world, no matter where I was from. I don’t know when I became so jaded about everything.”

“Jaded? _You?_ ”

“Yes.” She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and shook her head. “About the Ministry. About society. About—” Hermione broke off and took another swig of the Firewhiskey. “About love. I feel like a hamster in a wheel. I can’t seem to get anywhere, no matter how fast I run. I always end up stuck in the same place.”

“Easy, Granger,” said Malfoy, sounding vaguely alarmed. “That’s a lot of Firewhiskey.”

“I can handle myself, thank you,” she snapped.

“I’ve no doubt you can,” he replied.

And then, all of a sudden, emotional and broken down as much by the events of the evening as by the alcohol, she found herself sobbing—words spilling out of her mouth as though a dam had come loose—while she bared her soul to Draco Malfoy.

“You were right, Malfoy. I’ve become a terrible person. I’ve been in denial about it, but that’s the truth. I’ll do whatever it takes so long as I get what I want, and I justify it to myself by saying that I’m doing it for the right reasons, that whoever I’m fighting against deserves it, that all I want is to make the world a better place; but really, it’s not about that. It’s just about what I want, isn’t it?” Blubbering, she buried her head in her hands. “I don’t care about anyone’s feelings. I only dated George because I wanted Ron to feel as awful as I felt. And I only want Muggle-born rights legislation because I’m Muggle-born, and I don’t want to be ignored at the Ministry and turned out of restaurants. You were right. I’m not better than you. I’m a terrible person.”

Malfoy was silent for a moment as her bawling slowly died down to a slightly calmer snivelling. Then he said, in a soft and almost bizarrely cheerful voice, “I wouldn’t call you a terrible person, Granger. You might be unscrupulously relentless, but you’re a bleeding heart. What about S.P.E.W. and all that?”

She looked up to see him smiling at her, looking extremely amused.

“Is this _funny_ to you?” she choked out between sniffles.

“It’s funny because all this guilt and weeping isn’t exactly the mark of a terrible person. And I _am_ rather enjoying how much I seem to have gotten to you. You do take me seriously after all, don’t you, Granger?”

Hermione glared at him through her tears, and he chuckled.

“You really are a paradox. I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone so ruthless cry quite so much over the idea that she might be cold and heartless.”

The numbing buzz of the Firewhiskey started to settle in over her mind, and it occurred to her through the haze that this situation could not get any more mortifying. Her face was still damp with tears, and she had just admitted things to Draco Malfoy that she hadn’t even been prepared to admit to herself. Nothing she could say could possibly make things worse.

She gave a pained sigh of defeat. With all sense of preserving her dignity erased, she shook her head and swallowed the little that remained of her pride. “I give in, Malfoy. If your offer is still on the table, I accept.”

His face went blank for a moment, and she clarified, “Your offer of help? To have my memo read?”

He appeared to scrutinize her for an instant before smiling graciously and responding, “Of course it’s still on the table. Why wouldn’t it be?” He poured out another shot of Firewhiskey and lifted the glass in salute. “A toast, then? I think I might take this one on my own, since you seem to have had quite enough already.”

“No,” she said vehemently, tearing the bottle from his hands and downing another gulp. “I need it more than you do.”

Concern flashed briefly in Malfoy’s eyes, but he said nothing and took his shot. 

“This should be no trouble at all, Granger. Clemens oversees all law reform, and I have him in my shirt pocket. By Tuesday, the entire Ministry will have read your memo.”

Hermione felt strongly that colluding with Malfoy was probably the final step in becoming the perfect embodiment of everything she had once fought against. But what he had to offer was simply too tempting for her to pass up. She wanted those new anti-discrimination measures badly: she wanted them more than she wanted to keep her pride, more than she hated Draco Malfoy, even more than she wanted Ron. Wasn’t that why she’d lost him?

Weary with the burden of her new identity as disgraced degenerate, she nodded silently and leaned back in her seat.

“You know you’re in the wrong department for this, right?” asked Malfoy.

Hermione opened her mouth to argue, then admitted reluctantly, “I know. I joined Magical Creatures because I wanted to continue my work with S.P.E.W. Then I saw how much work there was left to be done in _wizard_ rights and regretted it.”

The confession left her feeling vulnerable, but to her surprise, he simply nodded calmly. “You can still get things done from where you are. It just won’t be as easy as it would be if you were in Magical Law Enforcement. They get a lot of say in these matters.”

Perplexed, she paused to consider him. “Why do you really want to help me, Malfoy? This isn’t like you. You can’t actually want to alienate your fellow purebloods to this degree—fighting discrimination and pretending to date a Mudblood. What is it you’re after?”

Something flickered behind his eyes but was gone before she could place it.

“I told you already, Granger. You fascinate me.” He suddenly looked very serious. “You’re in love with Weasley now, but you won’t always be.”

He leaned forward then, and for a moment it seemed as though he was about to kiss her—and in that one confusing moment, she almost considered letting him—but instead he rose from his seat and gallantly extended his arm. “You’re knackered, Granger. And possibly a bit drunk. I think I ought to escort you home.”

Too dazed to think, she took his arm and followed him out of the bar.

Later that night, as she struggled to fall asleep, her mind churned as she tried to figure out the baffling mystery that was his motives. But as she stared up at her ceiling, alone in the dark, the thought that nagged at her most was the horrifying knowledge that, under the right circumstances, she might have let Draco Malfoy kiss her.

~

Clemens approached her two days later, over a month after she’d first sent out her memo.

“I’ve reviewed your memo, Miss Granger,” he said enthusiastically. “It was very compelling. As soon as I read it, I knew it was something the Minister needed to see.”

“Thank you very much.”

“You did an excellent job laying out the shortcomings of our current laws, and I’m going to speak to the Minister about some of those changes you proposed. We’ll have to take another look at the old laws, see what we can do to fortify them a bit.”

“That’s wonderful to hear,” said Hermione. “I think reform is absolutely necessary and long overdue.”

Clemens nodded. “It’s at the top of my list. Very impressive memo, Miss Granger. I’ll be keeping an eye on your work in the future.”

~

New anti-discrimination measures were passed the following week.

Hermione did not know how to feel. Part of her was elated. Co-workers lined up at her door to congratulate her. The Minister himself shook her hand after signing the measures into law, a moment that was immortalized in the pages of the Prophet. Sitting in her office the next day, she opened the newspaper to sneak a glance at the photograph an embarrassing number of times—and each time, it was just as fresh and thrilling. It was a validation of everything she had ever strived for.

And yet another part of her was more disillusioned than ever, knowing—as her co-workers did not—that it was Malfoy who had made it happen, that it would never have happened without Malfoy’s influence. To her surprise and relief, he did not attend the signing. In fact, he gave no indication to the outside world that he had been involved in any way. But when she returned to her desk, she found an unsigned note that read only:

_Congratulations._

She knew instantly who it was from.

She thought about responding to say _thank you_ , but it did not seem enough. And yet, what more was there to say? After their humiliating last interaction, going to see him in person was out of the question. So she put the thought out of her mind for the time being.

A week later, when she still could not forget it, she tore out of the paper on a whim the photograph she prized so dearly, folded it neatly into an envelope, and sent it off. She had no words to say, so she hoped he would read in the picture the message she could not bring herself to write. The impossibly bright smile she wore as she took the Minister’s hand again and again—glittering into infinity, never dimming through their endless handshakes—said it all.

~

Even her half-hearted celebrations did not last long. Discrimination was already embedded in the system, and no one except for Muggle-borns, it seemed, was truly ready to see it go. The changes made had been relatively superficial in nature, and for the most part, they merely ended up providing the Ministry with a lot of free press on how progressive it was and how much it was accomplishing in the way of rebuilding a better society and so on and so forth. New names for the same laws. Talk was cheap.

If anything, things were actually moving in the opposite direction.

Hermione had Felicia Norbury’s bistro suspended and then eventually shut down; but the gesture amounted to little more than a lone sandbag trying to hold off a mighty flood. The whispers that the pureblood backlash was growing stronger turned into full-fledged discussions, and though Hermione had previously heard hushed rumors that such a movement was forming, it was now developing into something greater and more formidable than she could ever have imagined.

At the end of the Second War, the Ministry had confiscated the funds of many convicted Death Eaters sent to Azkaban—an action that had caused very few complaints. But the economy had recently begun to falter, and in an attempt to raise revenue, the Ministry had decided to take things a step further. Having announced that it would be re-opening and re-evaluating all such cases, it was now laying claim to the assets of not only convicted war criminals but also suspected Voldemort supporters and purebloods with Death Eater ties. The euphemistic term “rehabilitation” was coined to describe this process of taking unimprisoned citizens’ funds in the name of justice, and melodramatic headlines ran wild: _WHOSE GOLD IS NEXT?_ As one pureblood after another found their Gringotts vaults frozen, and as wizards and witches already displeased with the outcome of the war waited anxiously to see how the Ministry would rule on their individual cases, the rising tide of anger and frustration amongst the wizarding populace was becoming harder to ignore. Wizards who had never before expressed anti-Muggle-born sentiments were gathering and calling for a return to pureblood values.

Until now, the movement had mostly been quietly hidden underground, but reports of Muggle-born discrimination and hate crimes were steadily increasing, and Hermione saw no indication that the tide would soon turn. She was learning, slowly and painfully, that the war had not been won. Voldemort was dead and buried, but the twisted ideals he had stood for were not; they had wavered briefly, perhaps, in the wake of their leader’s demise, but were still alive and flourishing.

With the economy weakening and the pureblood backlash strengthening, it was quickly becoming unpopular to support the kinds of causes that Hermione had devoted her life to fighting for. Many donors were leaving S.P.E.W. behind, and if they continued to abandon the charity at such a rapid rate, she would soon be forced to shut it down. She needed to find new donors at once, but as times grew darker, she found that she had nowhere to turn.

In a different time, the easiest person to ask would have been Harry. But Harry had never taken S.P.E.W. seriously, and now that Ginny held the pursestrings, Hermione knew he would never consider going against her for S.P.E.W.’s sake. It wouldn’t be worth it to him.

She thought about pleading her case on the basis of friendship, but she could already picture Harry’s uncomfortable response: “If you were ever in any trouble, Hermione, or if you really needed something—if it were for something _really_ important…”

Never mind how much it meant to her. She had never known how to explain to Harry that S.P.E.W. _was_ something really important to her.

Not wishing to jeopardize her friendship, she left Harry alone and asked everyone else she could think of asking. She even considered going to George—she knew he had the money—but she felt too guilty, especially when she already felt awful about how she had led him on. It was a lot of money for him, and though she suspected he would be willing to give it to her, it was money that he could re-invest in his business instead. She wouldn’t be able to live with herself if she ever hurt George again in any way. Perhaps, she thought regretfully, it had been a mistake to break up with him too hastily—but then she brushed the thought aside and decided that being honest with him had been the right thing to do.

She was desperate and lonely; and she felt trapped in an unchanging nightmare in which, no matter how hard she worked to prove herself, she would never be more than a lowly Muggle-born, reviled by less competent wizards who fancied themselves worthier than her; and in which her causes would never amount to more than a joke that her friends were forced to generously tolerate, rather than actually support; and in which, perhaps worst of all, the only man she had ever loved would perpetually leave her for Lavender Brown.

Every morning, she hoped to wake up from her hell; and every morning, she found her reality despairingly the same.

And then one afternoon as she flipped through the Prophet, a photograph caught her eye and she suddenly realized that there was one person she had not yet thought to ask. A person who had more than enough gold to spare S.P.E.W. the kind of contribution it needed. It was so obvious that she should have thought of it before—and yet the idea of asking was too horrible to swallow.

But what choice did she have?

She put down the paper, lost in thought, and stared blindly at the picture she had tossed aside of Draco Malfoy smirking arrogantly up at her.


	5. Chapter 5

She waited for him in the Atrium, outside the lifts. She knew that he lunched every Wednesday with Adrian Pucey, who worked in Magical Games and Sports, and if her calculations were correct, he would be on his way down from Adrian’s office any minute.

Their eyes met as soon as he stepped into the lobby.

“I don’t dare to hope that you’re waiting for me,” he said, in what was more question than statement.

“Actually, I am.”

His eyebrows shot up, and she cleared her throat and put on the most natural smile she could muster. “I was hoping to talk to you about… our deal.”

“Our deal?”

“Yes, well, I never did hold up my end of the bargain, did I?”

Malfoy simply stared at her, and Hermione could practically feel her cheeks turning pink as she became increasingly flustered.

“I mean, we were supposed to—it’s—I just like to keep my word, is all; and I promised that I would go to dinner with you.”

For a split second, Hermione caught a glimpse of an incredulous expression in his eyes, but it vanished as quickly as it had arrived.

“That’s true,” he said slowly. “Thank you for reminding me.”

“I just wanted to express my gratitude.”

“So, that’s all you wanted to say? You figured out my schedule and waited for me just so you could make sure I’d follow through on that dinner date?”

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and shrugged as casually as she could. “Well, I never got to thank you for your help.”

“How magnanimous of you,” he murmured, looking at her curiously. “Tomorrow, then?”

“Tomorrow works for me.”

“I’ll pick you up at 7.”

~

The business of figuring out what to wear to a dinner date with Draco Malfoy was an exercise in frustration—one that Hermione had neither expected nor wanted to experience. Everything she owned was wrong for the occasion: either too dressy (she didn’t want to look as though she’d tried too hard), too business-like (the dinner needed to feel casual and intimate), too revealing (she wasn’t about to give him the wrong idea), too dowdy (it was a date, after all, and on a date a witch always dresses to impress), or too Muggle (that wouldn’t appeal to Malfoy at all).

…for Merlin’s sake, was she actually trying to _appeal_ to Draco Malfoy?

Hermione sat down on her bed and burst into incredulous laughter. What on Earth was she _doing?_ Not only had she volunteered herself for a date with Malfoy, she was now spending countless minutes of her valuable time agonizing over what to wear, eliminating clothing based on his tastes, seemingly doing everything short of throwing herself at him in order to get him to save her organization. Shaking her head in disbelief—had it really come to _this_?—she shuddered at her own horrendous lack of dignity and went through her wardrobe one last time.

She went to work the next day in neatly cut robes that she intended to wear straight to dinner; that way, Malfoy wouldn’t think that she’d dressed especially for the occasion. At lunch, she was taking great pains to eat her sandwich carefully, so that she didn’t spill on anything on herself, when one of her colleagues said, “Have you heard? They’re making judgments this week on a new round of rehabilitation.”

“Again?” asked Paul, another of her co-workers.

“Yeah, any assets they haven’t already seized, they’ve frozen. It’s all the Death Eaters this time.”

“ _All_ the Death Eaters?” Hermione interrupted through a bite of her sandwich.

“Every last one of them. Even some purebloods who were just rumored to associate with them. The Ministry’s gotten desperate for funds.”

“Even the ones who are friendly with the Ministry these days?” she asked, alarmed.

“Like the Carrow twins and Malfoy and the rest? Yeah. They couldn’t discriminate; it’d look bad for them. Plus, they need the gold. The Ministry’ll probably release _their_ assets sooner or later, after they’ve taken their fill. But it isn’t looking good for the ones who’ve been more difficult.”

“I heard Zabini tried to smuggle all his money into Switzerland,” said Amelia, from her left.

Paul chuckled. “Poor Zabini. He’s been trying so hard to distance himself from everything and everyone Death Eater-related—and he didn’t even fight in the war.”

“Well, they’re definitely going to clean him out now.”

“Not as badly as the Mulcibers, though. I heard…”

But Hermione, who suddenly felt rather ill, heard nothing more of their conversation.

As soon as she got back to her office, she whipped out her quill and some parchment and jotted off a note as quickly as she could.

_Dear Malfoy,_

_I’m terribly sorry, but I won’t be able to make tonight’s dinner after all. Something unexpected has come up and it looks as though I’ll have to stay at the Ministry until 9 PM._

_Regretfully,  
HG_

Not two minutes later, an eagle owl tapped at her window with a reply.

_I dine late. See you at 9._

Groaning in frustration, Hermione sent the owl back with a reply of her own.

_Thank you for offering to reschedule, but there’s no need. I’m afraid tonight just won’t work._

_HG_

But when the owl returned, it dropped Malfoy’s note on her desk and flew away before she could read it and scribble out her response.

_Granger, don’t be difficult. The Atrium at 9._

_Don’t bother sending a reply._

~

Hermione finally ventured out of her office at 10 PM that night, hours after all her co-workers had gone.

As it turned out, 10 PM had not been quite late enough.

Malfoy had conjured a very comfortable-looking armchair upholstered in navy velvet; and he was sitting alone in the deserted Atrium, reading the Prophet and appearing utterly out of place.

“Oh, good,” he said, looking up from the paper. “You’re finally done.”

“You’re still here? You waited an _hour_?”

“A little more than that, actually.”

“Malfoy, I told you tonight’s not a good night. I’m very sorry, but—”

He rose calmly from his chair and Vanished it with a flick of his wand. “You need to eat at some point, Granger. If you don’t have much time, we’ll make it quick.”

“Thank you, but I’ve still got tons of work to finish, and—”

“I thought you were on your way out.”

“Yes, well, I was going to finish up at home.”

Malfoy cocked his head to the side, his eyes sweeping lazily over her robes. “You dressed up.”

“Wh—no, I didn’t!”

He ignored her. “So what are you working on?”

“Something for S.P.E.W. On the living conditions of house elves.”

“Really? Maybe I can help. I grew up with house elves, you know.”

“I don’t think that’s—”

“Try me.”

“Thank you for the offer, but that really isn’t necessary. And I’ve also got a report to write for the Goblin Liaison Office, so my plate’s quite full tonight.” 

“The Goblin Liaison Office? How fascinating.” Malfoy folded his arms and looked at her expectantly. “Tell me more.”

Hermione stared at him in disbelief. “You want to hear more about my report?”

“Yes, what’s it on?”

“I—I really don’t have time to explain the whole thing—”

“That’s too bad,” he interrupted smoothly. “Well, it looks as though you have a full night of work ahead of you. How about dinner tomorrow?”

“I can’t. Sorry, but I’ve already got plans.”

“What about Saturday?”

“That won’t work either.”

“Next week?”

“I, um—it’s just—I’m going to be very busy the whole week, with these projects and everything.”

“All right,” he said, appearing impossibly unfazed. “Why don’t you name a time that works for you, and with the use of my impressive magical abilities, I will make myself available at exactly that time.”

“Perhaps we should just take a rain check,” she said desperately.

One corner of Malfoy’s mouth flicked upwards into a crooked smirk. “So. You found out.”

For a moment, Hermione stopped breathing.

“I’m sorry?”

“You found out my assets were frozen.” The other corner of his mouth gave way, and his half-smirk widened into an unpleasantly tight smile. “Who told you?”

Her jaw dropped. Gaping at him in a supremely unflattering way, she began to sputter, “I—you—but—”

“Just my luck, isn’t it?” he said sardonically, folding the Prophet and tucking it into the pocket of his robes. “All you had to do was stay in the dark just one more day, but somehow you managed to find out only 24 hours later.”

“You—you _knew_ the whole time?”

He clicked his tongue. “Granger, your conniving may have seemed sophisticated to someone like Weasley, but you can hardly expect _me_ to always stay ten steps behind, can you? I heard weeks ago that S.P.E.W. was on the chopping block.”

She bristled at the mention of Ron, then realized that she was uncertain which brother he was referring to and felt even worse. Malfoy, meanwhile, seemed to be taking immense pleasure in her embarrassment—which only served to incense Hermione further.

“I want to help, Granger. I do. I would have, really, except not only is all my money sitting uselessly in the Ministry’s pocket, but all my friends have got their money locked up as well. So you see, there’s really nothing I can do.”

There was something mournful about his eyes and the tilt of his head, though his voice was light as air, and his fists were jammed deep in his pockets; but Hermione saw nothing except the upturned curve of his lips and read it as triumph.

How dare he do this to her—and enjoy it so much? She was so angry she could barely think straight: she’d been _tricked_ and _humiliated_ and—clenching her fists, she drew a deep breath and tried to speak as calmly as she could.

“And exactly how long were you going to let me go on making a complete arse of myself?”

“I was going to tell you eventually,” he said, still looking infuriatingly amused. “I just wanted to see what it would be like to have Hermione Granger try to seduce me.”

“I was _not_ trying to _seduce_ you,” she cried indignantly. “I was just going to ask! Don’t be lewd, you _disgusting_ —how dare you, to imply that—I can’t even—”

“You can act as holier-than-thou as you want,” said Malfoy, a definite edge to his voice, “but I think it’s become obvious that you’re just as morally bankrupt as I am.”

“ _Morally bankrupt?_ Don’t you dare talk to me about morality when, if there were any justice in the world, you and your father would be in Azkaban right this second!”

He blinked rapidly a few times in response, but otherwise showed no sign of emotion. “Well, Granger, I might not be as useful as you would have preferred, but I can still afford to buy you dinner. I’m assuming you haven’t eaten.”

He reached out to take her arm, but she shrugged it off and glared up at him with revulsion in her eyes.

“You’re sick,” she spat. “You’re sick, and _twisted_ , and I should never have—ugh!”

She threw her hands up in frustration before blowing past him and storming off towards the fireplaces.

~

The next morning, Hermione’s mood had not improved.

She picked a fight with a stranger who stepped on her foot in the lobby. She told off an intern for misfiling some relatively unimportant paperwork. She practically shouted at Paul for disturbing her while she was on a Floo call, giving the French witch she was speaking to a bit of a scare.

She was still in a foul mood on her way out to lunch, when the lift suddenly lurched and someone behind her spilled his coffee all over the back of her robes.

Drenched and positively livid, she whirled around ready to face the culprit and give him a piece of her mind—didn’t they know everything in her life was going wrong already?—but she stopped, her mouth halfway open, when she saw who it was.

“Hermione?”

“ _Cormac?_ ” she said disbelievingly, the spilled coffee forgotten.

Cormac whipped out his wand and immediately began attempting to dry her robes. “Merlin, Hermione, I’m so sorry; I can’t believe I—”

“It’s no problem at all,” she said hurriedly, taking out her own wand and doing it herself. “What are you doing here?”

“I’ve just come from visiting my uncle Tiberius. Are you sure you’re all right? I’m not usually so clumsy, I swear.”

Of course. She had forgotten about Cormac’s impeccable connections. “Yes, yes, I’m fine,” she reassured him, swiveling awkwardly at the waist as she reached around to dry her back. “It’s good to see you again.”

They chatted until the lift stopped, with Cormac awkwardly trying to cast drying spells on her robes at the same time that she was. Once they had stepped outside and Hermione was no longer soaked, he offered to take her out to lunch to make up for his gaffe, insisting that it was the least he could do.

He took her to a restaurant in Diagon Alley that stood where Florean Fortescue’s used to be, and they caught up over lamb chops and steak. He was a curse-breaker now, which struck her as a good fit for his bold, adventurous personality; and he had his fair share of exciting stories to tell about Egypt and Italy. Hermione told him about her (considerably less exciting) work at the Ministry as well, and from the exceedingly polite manner in which he was feigning interest, she sensed that he was still as attracted to her as he had once been at school.

She chewed on a bite of lamb and watched him appraisingly, remembering how aggressively he had pursued her at Hogwarts. He was not unattractive by any means; and he was intelligent enough, if a bit brash. In fact, he was exactly the kind of partner she needed to be looking for: someone with status, someone who could help her achieve her goals. Cormac was a good catch—his name meant something in the Ministry, where his uncle was Senior Undersecretary to the Minister—and he happened to like her. She could do far worse, she decided.

“You know who I ran into the other day?” he said. “Blaise Zabini. He was in your year, wasn’t he?”

“Unfortunately. Do you remember the face he always used to make at Slughorn’s little meetings?”

“Like someone had shoved a Fizzing Whizbee up his arse,” laughed Cormac. “Merlin’s beard, those Slug Club meetings were awkward.”

“Harry used to do everything he could to get out of them. I think he purposely scheduled Quidditch practices at those times.”

Cormac’s face darkened a bit, and Hermione suddenly recalled that Harry had not let him onto the Gryffindor team—thanks, in no small part, to her own influence. It had been one of the first times that Harry had expressed disbelief at how far she was willing to go for Ron.

“At any rate,” she said, quickly changing the subject, “I’m kind of glad I went to all those get-togethers, aren’t you?”

“I made some friends,” Cormac said with a shrug.

“You know,” she said meaningfully, “that Christmas party was the first and last time I ever asked a boy out.”

He glanced up at her in surprise. With a somewhat guarded expression, he replied carefully, “I remember we got stuck under the mistletoe, and you wouldn’t let me kiss you.”

There was an awkward pause. Hermione took a deep breath and smiled.

“Well,” she said pointedly, in her best imitation of what a more coquettish girl might sound like, “I’m sure I wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.”

They had scarcely made it out of the restaurant when Cormac grabbed her by the arm and pulled her into an unabashedly demanding kiss. Hermione was afraid the entire time that someone might walk by and recognize her; it was daytime, after all, and they were smack dab in the middle of Diagon Alley. But she was also pleased at how easily her charms had swayed him, and there was something unexpectedly thrilling about the way he kissed—it was so reckless, so _aggressive_. She could not stop herself from mentally comparing him to Ron; but to her surprise, next to Ron’s ungraceful fumbling, Cormac came out on top.

He insisted on walking her back to her office at the Ministry and, along the way, asked her out for the following night. It was perhaps the first proper date Hermione had ever agreed to go on.

Cormac was escorting her through the Atrium when someone called from behind, “Oy! McLaggen!”

They turned to find Bertie Higgs, the recently appointed Head of the Magical Law Enforcement Department, chasing after them.

“Come to see Tiberius?” he asked Cormac cheerfully.

“I actually saw him earlier today.”

“Oh,” replied Bertie, as his eyes wandered towards Hermione. “I see. And who’s this?”

“Hermione Granger,” she said, extending her hand enthusiastically. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Higgs.”

“Please,” he said, taking her hand and giving it a hearty shake, “I insist you call me Bertie. Hermione Granger, eh? Aren’t you the young witch who proposed the anti-discrimination reform?”

She nodded modestly.

“I didn’t know you were a friend of Cormac’s,” he replied jovially. He shot Cormac an accusatory glare. “Where have you been hiding this one?”

By the time Bertie finally said goodbye and headed off to his own department, Hermione had a feeling that her run-in with Cormac would prove to be very, very good news indeed.

~

Even though Hermione had invited Ron to her latest S.P.E.W. meeting, she had not actually expected him to show up. She’d invited him mostly out of tradition—the tradition of her having asked him to come to every meeting she’d ever held, and of him still not yet having come to a single one. So when he wandered in late, looking a bit out of place, she could barely believe her eyes.

After the meeting was over, he approached the front of the room and said uncertainly, “I thought it was about time I came to one of these things.”

She smiled a little. “What’d you think?”

“It’s certainly grown since Hogwarts, hasn’t it?” he said, chuckling uneasily. “Back when you were just passing out buttons, forcing me and Harry to wear them?”

Hermione nodded wearily. “That was a long time ago.”

The room had emptied out, and they found themselves alone—truly alone—for the first time since she’d confronted him about his engagement. Ron was silent for a moment, staring awkwardly at the floor.

Then he spoke: “So you really are dating McLaggen.”

She did not respond immediately, and he gave a nervous laugh. “I didn’t believe it until I heard about Tiberius McLaggen donating to S.P.E.W. I take it that that’s what brought in all your new donors? The number-two official at the Ministry taking on the cause?”

“Tiberius has been very helpful,” Hermione said simply, and Ron nodded.

“I’m glad he saved your charity.”

“Thank you.”

“So how’d you meet? Cormac, I mean.”

The jealousy was practically oozing out of Ron’s every pore, and as much as Hermione hated herself for it, she could not suppress her delight. It was clear that he still had feelings for her, no matter how much he tried to hide them—or else why would he be so tortured by this news? He had not been able to get it off his mind; he had sought her out on his own. She fought back a smile and shrugged.

“I ran into him at work. He spilled coffee on me in the lift, and then he asked if he could buy me lunch to make up for it.”

Ron twitched uncomfortably. He had always been insecure when it came to Cormac, who had so many advantages he did not—superior Quidditch skills; wealth and connections; a manly, muscular build—and Hermione could see that this most recent development had served to make things worse.

“You just hit it off, then?” he asked, looking as though he could not think of a more horrible possibility.

“I don’t know. We got to talking, and…” She trailed off.

“I thought it was a joke when I first heard it, you know? That you were dating him. Thought someone had gotten confused about the time you went with him to that Christmas party all those years ago.”

He idly scratched something off his robes with his thumbnail.

“We can’t seem to get past our old patterns, can we?” she said quietly.

Ron’s eyes were grim as they rose to meet hers. “No,” he replied. “I guess we can’t.”


	6. Chapter 6

Harry’s lips were pursed so tightly that he was beginning to resemble a fish wearing glasses.

“I can’t believe you’re engaged,” he said again, staring down at the large diamond ring on her finger.

Hermione cut into her treacle tart and tried not to look at him. “I think the wedding might need to happen in the next few months,” she said airily. “Once Cormac starts his project in Egypt, there’s no way he’ll be able to take time off for a honeymoon.”

“Hermione, are you sure—” Harry shook his head. “It’s just that—it feels like it’s too soon.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, putting down her fork. “It’s not like you and Ginny didn’t jump into things—”

“Yeah, but Ginny and I had known each other forever. You and Cormac—”

“Ron and Lavender only went out for three months before they got engaged, and you didn’t seem to have any problem with it when _they_ got married.”

“Is that what this is about? Ron?”

“ _What?_ No! What does Ron have to do with—”

“Look, it just seems like this is the exact same thing you did back at Hogwarts, when Ron started going out with Lavender and you used Cormac to get back at him.”

“Harry, I’m not about to _marry_ someone just to ‘get back at Ron,’ and it’s _insulting_ that you would even insinuate—”

“So then why _are_ you marrying him?” Harry demanded. “I mean, it’s bloody _Cormac McLaggen_. If it isn’t to drive Ron crazy, what could possibly possess you to do this?”

“Look, Cormac might not be the suavest wizard in England, but he’s really interesting once you start talking to him, and he’s passionate about his work, and—”

“Name one thing the two of you have in common.”

“Harry, don’t be ridiculous.”

“No, really. Name _one thing_ the two of you have in common, and—”

“We were both in Gryffindor,” Hermione snapped, and Harry rolled his eyes.

“So you’re actually going to sit here and try to convince me that you’ve fallen in love with Cormac McLaggen?”

“You know, Harry,” said Hermione angrily, throwing her napkin onto the table, “it’s really starting to get offensive, the way you’re reacting to what was supposed to be good news.”

“I’m just saying, as your friend—”

“Exactly—you’re supposed to be my friend. Shouldn’t you be _happy_ for me?”

“How can I be happy for you when you’re clearly making an enormous mistake?” shouted Harry. “You know, I didn’t want to think it when I first heard about what happened with S.P.E.W., but if this is about McLaggen’s uncle and who he knows in the Ministry, then this has gone _way_ too far!”

She stared at him, and he finished coldly, “And I didn’t say anything about what happened with you and George, or your budding little friendship with Malfoy, but _Merlin_ , Hermione, these days—it’s like I can barely even _recognize_ you anymore.”

For a moment, Hermione said nothing. When she spoke again, her tone had an acidity that Harry had never heard from her before.

“I don’t think you have the right to say that,” she said icily, and her voice was quiet but razor-sharp. “We’ve been best friends—or we’ve claimed to be—for years. But when was the last time you were bothered to give a damn about my life, Harry?”

He opened his mouth to reply, but she cut him off.

“The two of us have barely spent any time together, ever since Ron and I had our falling out. Even though you knew how much it hurt me when he proposed to Lavender—you just turned a blind eye to the whole thing. You never _once_ asked me how I felt about it, whether I was doing all right. And when S.P.E.W. almost got flushed down the toilet, you couldn’t have cared less. You didn’t even offer to try and help. And then you actually have the nerve to judge me for finding donations elsewhere? You can say what you like about Cormac, but he was there for me when I needed it.”

Hermione rose from the table and gathered her things. “You haven’t been there for me at all, Harry. So maybe the reason that you don’t recognize me anymore is because we’re no longer friends.”

~

She saw the headline in the morning, on a co-worker’s desk:

_MALFOYS FOUND MURDERED IN THEIR PARIS HOME._

The article read that a Muggle-born wizard, whose sister (a witch) had been tortured and killed by Lucius Malfoy during the Second War, had finally gotten his revenge. The Malfoys had tried to hide from their crimes in France, but the vengeful murderer had managed to sneak into their residence in wizarding Paris and had used the Killing Curse on them both.

Hermione could think of nothing else the entire day.

By the time her lunch break arrived, she had already decided to use it to search for him. She thought about owling him, but she knew that he would not reply. So she put on her cloak and went out. On an impulse, she left her engagement ring behind in her desk before she went.

Following her instincts, Hermione went back to the pub where he had taken her the night of Ron’s wedding. The bartender stared suspiciously at her as she entered, but she paid no heed—she had already spotted Malfoy at the same corner table where they had sat that night. His jaw was clenched as he stared down into a glass of Valens’ Vipertooth.

“Malfoy,” she said softly, and he looked up.

For a split second, his face was completely unguarded, in a way that Hermione had never seen before; and a vast and thrilling array of emotions flickered across it. All at once, he looked weary and furious and vulnerable and surprised and lonely and hopeful—and there was something tragically beautiful about that openness that was entirely unlike the Draco Malfoy with which she was acquainted. The moment felt almost too intimate, like an invasion; as though she were glimpsing inside his soul.

“Granger? What are you doing here?” he asked, as his face steeled itself into a pale ghost of a more typical expression.

“I saw the news about your parents. It was in the papers.”

His eyes returned to the Firewhiskey, while his hand gripped the glass so tightly that his knuckles began to turn white. Hermione slid into the seat across from him. “I’m so sorry.”

“Why?” he asked, without looking at her. “You were enemies. You probably think they got what they deserved.”

Whatever response she had been expecting, it had not been that. Taken aback, she shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “Draco, they’re your parents. I can only imagine what you’re going through right now.”

“You never even met my mother. And I know my father was never anything more than terrible to you.”

“I did meet your mother, actually,” she said, hesitantly.

He snorted. “Never mind then. Excellent, I’m sure that went swimmingly.”

Hermione swallowed. “She was very beautiful.”

“Yes,” he said quietly. “Yes, she was.”

There was nothing clever or arrogant about him—nothing to remind you of his usual self— and it was strange and flustering and yet oddly familiar, as though she had already met this person who was not Draco Malfoy.

His eyes rose to meet hers. “I hear you’re engaged to Cormac McLaggen.”

Hermione had not been prepared for that, either.

“Where’s your ring?” he asked.

“I didn’t wear it today.”

“Is that how little it means to you?”

She opened her mouth but could not think of a response.

“Is there nothing you won’t do?” he went on, his voice strangely hollow. “No limit to your ambition? No, of course there isn’t.” He gave a mirthless chuckle. “You value those sodding _house elves_ so highly, and you have no idea what you’re worth. Don’t you value yourself at all?”

Hermione knew that she ought to argue with him, that she ought to defend herself somehow, but something in his words had tired her. She suddenly noticed how little Valens’ Vipertooth was still left in the bottle on his table. “I just wanted to come and express my sympathy,” she said. “But if you’d rather be alone—”

“I don’t need your sympathy, Granger.”

“I’ll just be going, then.”

She rose and had already started to walk away when Malfoy called after her. “Tell me something.”

She turned around.

“If I’d still had access to my gold—would you have married me?”

He didn’t look at her as he said it.

Hermione paused for a moment, then turned to leave without giving an answer.

~

She and Harry had not spoken since their fight, and she had not heard from Ron since her engagement. But, strangely enough, it was Malfoy’s words that kept her up at night, not theirs. It was his reaction that bothered her most—his reaction that haunted as her as she lay awake in bed, reliving their conversation as it echoed in her ears. _Is there nothing you won’t do?_ he had asked. _Is there no limit to your ambition?_ Even when she finally managed to fall asleep, his questions followed her relentlessly into her dreams.

Hermione and Cormac were married in a lavish wedding attended by hundreds of guests and neither of her two best friends. Lavender, however, was among those present, and she appeared to be mortified that her husband had not accompanied her.

“You look so beautiful, Hermione,” she said repeatedly, smiling nervously. “I’m so happy for you and Cormac, and so is Ron—he would be here if he could, really—very busy with the shop, you see—he was so sorry that he couldn’t make it…”

The reception was held at the McLaggens’ mansion, which had been gorgeously decorated for the occasion. Cormac’s mother had taken on most of the planning herself, but Hermione had added one small touch of her own: she had charmed small white marshmallow birds to flutter to and fro, carrying in their beaks little pink flowers made from sugar. More than one guest ran around the ballroom chasing the flying treats and popping them into their mouths with delight, while Hermione’s Muggle relatives stared on in bewilderment and asked one another how _they_ thought that flying trick was done.

Hermione loved wedding cake, and she ate no less than eight fat slices of hers that evening. When Cormac discovered that she had set them aside in advance, hiding them to ensure that no guests accidentally consumed them, he burst into laughter.

“I don’t know whether to be impressed or disgusted,” he joked loudly, as she tried in vain to hush him. “Look at this ruthless hoarding of cake. I thought you were supposed to be charitable!”

“Shh,” she whispered urgently, “someone might hear you.”

But he was undeterred, grinning and wrapping his arms around her. “You really are a paradox, aren’t you?” he asked with amusement, and she was suddenly reminded of Draco Malfoy.

She shuddered and pulled away. Glancing around the room, she noticed that her aunt was speaking to one of Cormac’s cousins and looking positively baffled. “Oh, dragon dung,” she muttered under her breath. “Cormac, I think Cadmon and Aunt Abigail need to be separated.”

With that, she hurried off in their direction.

“Aunt Abigail, of course Cadmon’s only joking about having ridden a broomstick on his way here—don’t be silly!”

~

Life was a little easier as Mrs. McLaggen, though not by much. Cormac did not disappoint: he had the status and connections that she’d sought; but he was not at all interested in her work or her goals, and he was often away on business as a curse-breaker. Tiberius McLaggen’s public support of her organization had temporarily saved S.P.E.W. from certain doom; but it needed money to function, and as Cormac had no real gold of his own yet, Hermione still had to struggle to find donors.

Nonetheless, Cormac’s parents were wealthy and generous—if apathetic toward S.P.E.W.’s existence—and Hermione lived more comfortably as a married woman than she ever had before. More importantly, with Tiberius’ influence and Cormac’s surname, she soon transferred to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement on Bertie Higgs’ recommendation. The department, which Hermione had long aspired to join, was notoriously selective about its highly coveted top posts. Though it was still not easy to get her ideas and proposals noticed from within MLE, there was no comparison to how difficult it had been before, when she’d been fighting her way in from the outside.

The underground backlash had worsened and was now slowly entering the mainstream. Increasingly, it was the more pureblood-sympathetic officials at the Ministry who were moving into positions of power, and Hermione found it harder than ever to amass support for cracking down on hate crimes and other anti-Muggle-born behavior. She needed to launch a full-scale campaign for change, but the husband that she had hoped would back her cause could not have cared less about what she was doing at the Ministry.

Cormac was busy with his own project in Egypt, and he was less than pleased at how much time Hermione was spending at work. He was steadfastly traditional in his notions about marriage, and he disliked that his wife seemed to live in her own world, separate from his, never accompanying him on his frequent travels abroad or taking an active interest in his career.

The quintessential Gryffindor, Cormac was never afraid to let Hermione know exactly how he felt about something. “All the other curse-breakers’ wives have visited the site already,” he complained late one night, after returning home by Portkey. “Some are even staying there. I’m lucky if I see you twice in one week. And what’s the point of marrying the biggest swot at Hogwarts if she’s not even going to take a look and offer her insight?”

Hermione sighed and forced herself to smile indulgently at this latest airing of grievances. It ought to have been flattering, after all, that he wanted to see more of her—that he valued her input. “I know we haven’t spent that much time together lately,” she said, “but it’ll pass. Work’s just been keeping both of us busy, and once everything dies down a bit—”

“It’s not going to die down for me.”

“We’ll get better at making time for ourselves.”

“No one else on the team is having this problem. _Their_ wives are—”

“Cormac, not everyone’s wives work!”

“Well,” he said huffily, “maybe that’s something we should think about.”

When she awoke the next morning to a half-empty bed, he had already left again for Egypt. Hermione pressed one hand against the cool sheets on his side of the bed and rubbed her eyes with the other. She was getting tired of his unsubtle suggestions that she quit her job, but she knew that nothing she could say would sway him on the matter. Cormac was simply the type of wizard who wanted his wife at home, raising his children and preparing his meals. She had known that going in.

He was not the most sensitive husband, and he was not as warm as Ron or as funny as George or—as much as she tried to suppress it, she could not help thinking—as clever as Draco Malfoy. But he was honest and well-meaning, and while she did not always appreciate his macho sensibilities, she was surprised to find that she rather liked his assertiveness: as it turned out, a fiercely protective attitude could be quite appealing in a man. And though he was known for being blunt, those close to Hermione knew that she could be exactly the same way, even tactlessly so. In fact, it made for easy, straightforward communication; and after years of tiptoeing around Ron’s insecurities, Cormac’s brash confidence was a welcome, refreshing change (Ron, for all his boorishness about others’ feelings, had always been terribly sensitive when it came to his own).

So Hermione and Cormac were open and sincere with one another, and together they shared a marriage of genuine affection—if not ardent love. They saw each other less than most couples, but she almost preferred it that way: she would have been loath to have to prepare dinner for him every night, especially since she’d insisted on a strict no-house-elves policy in their home. It was not perfect, but for Hermione, it was more than enough.

She still thought of Ron—how could she not?—and of what it might have been like to marry him instead. If it had been Ron, she would not have given a second thought to surnames or status or connections; she would not have been secretly glad that he ate most of his dinners away from home. She often wondered whether he and Lavender were happy, but convinced herself that she did not care.

After all, she was finally in the department that she had so longed to join, and she was working towards the cause that meant more to her than anything else. Hermione could hardly complain.

As for Draco Malfoy, she no longer saw him everywhere she went. Their paths crossed only once, when Cormac was in Egypt and she went out to dinner on her own. She spotted him from across the restaurant, though he didn’t seem to notice her. He appeared to be on a date with a dark, beautiful witch she recognized as Astoria Greengrass; and Hermione could not explain the odd prickling sensation that stirred her insides as she watched their meal from afar.


	7. Chapter 7

Hermione’s heart was pounding as she raced to St. Mungo’s.

She was in such a hurry that she had nearly forgotten to change into her Muggle clothing before leaving; and the haphazard outfit that she had thrown together at the last minute ended up attracting almost as much attention as her witch’s robes would have. But her mind was far from her appearance as she burst into the hospital, flying past the welcome desk and through the reception area as she rushed to the fourth floor.

When she’d finally made it to her destination, she stood frozen in the doorway, heaving for breath, staring down at Harry’s weakened form.

Ron turned around in his chair, then rose abruptly when he saw her. “You came,” he said breathlessly.

She nodded weakly, stepping closer to the bed. Harry’s body was mostly hidden beneath his blankets, but the parts of him that she could see were badly burnt and covered in blisters. His face, deathly pale, seemed to register her arrival, but he appeared too feeble to voice a proper welcome. She had never seen him look worse.

“ _Harry_ ,” she whispered involuntarily.

“He’s fine,” said Ron, his voice strained. “As fine as he can be, that is. He’s in much better shape now than when he first got here.”

“Who did this?” she asked quietly.

Ron clenched his jaw. “Some lunatic, that’s who. The Auror Office says it’s confidential, since he was on the job when it happened. They’ll only let him say that the bastard’s been properly detained.”

“That’s a relief,” she replied, her eyes never leaving Harry. She did not sound the least bit relieved.

Suddenly, Harry gave a pained cough. “Hermione,” he croaked out, and she hurried to his side. She wanted more than anything to fling herself on the bed and embrace him, but the burns made it impossible.

How had they fought? How had they _ever_ fought?

Gently brushing his matted hair out of his face, she noticed a deep purple gash running down his cheek and stifled a gasp.

“What did—what _spell_ did he—oh, Harry!”

Ron approached and took her in his arms, giving her the hug that Harry could not. “It’ll be all right, Hermione,” he said softly. “The Healers said he’ll recover before you know it.”

Harry cracked a tiny smile, and she tried her best to smile back, her heart brimming with hope. If he could smile, surely he was all right. She had to be strong for him; she could not let him see her cry.

Then he began to speak—albeit with great effort. “I think,” he said hoarsely, “that it’s been too long since you last put on your Muggle clothes. Have you forgotten how to wear them?”

She glanced down at her attire then—at the bright yellow raincoat, the multi-colored hoodie, the black silk skirt, the denim sneakers—and chuckled. She’d grabbed the first Muggle pieces she could find in her closet and had barely noticed what they were. She hadn’t worn Muggle clothing once since her marriage to Cormac, so she’d had to dig in the very back to find them.

“I was in a rush to get here.”

“Why, what’s wrong with her clothes?” asked Ron.

Hermione and Harry exchanged looks and laughed.

“What? I don’t get it!”

And just like that, all was forgotten.

~

They stayed with Harry until he fell asleep, then retired quietly to the visitors’ tearoom on the fifth floor so that he could get some rest.

It felt like old times again—the two of them together, keeping watch over Harry. Ginny, who was still playing in a Harpies match, had not yet been contacted. So Hermione and Ron ate alone and talked longingly about the past; and as they huddled close and spoke of days gone by, it was easy to pretend that the wedding rings on their fingers belonged to one another and not to spouses left at home.

She had missed him terribly. She had been so busy recently with work and Cormac and everything else that she’d almost forgotten how much she missed him. But as he leaned over and gently placed his hand on hers, it was impossible not to regress to that familiar yearning for someone so close and yet just barely out of reach.

“It’s been hard without you, Hermione.” Ron squeezed her hand. “I’ve realized how difficult it is for me to go on without you.”

Her heart stirred, and she took a deep breath. “It hasn’t been easy for me either,” she said carefully.

“Then let’s never fight again. You mean too much to me.” With a half-hearted smile, he added, “I can’t lose you just because you married Cormac McLaggen.”

“You never lost me, Ron.” _If only he knew._

“I mean, can’t we talk about things like we used to? When we were at Hogwarts, we told each other everything.”

“Of course we can, but—it’s _you_ who changed things, remember? I mean, we’re married now. Things are different.”

Ron averted his gaze, but he did not move his hand from hers. “That doesn’t mean I stopped caring about you.”

Could it be? Was he finally admitting his feelings?

Hope flooding her veins, she reached out with her free hand to clasp their hands together and looked him in the eye.

“You know how much I care about you, Ron. I care about you more than anything in the world.”

“Then let’s be friends again. I can’t go on like this, Hermione.”

They were in public, and each had a ring wrapped tightly around one finger, but Hermione couldn’t stop herself from throwing her arms around his neck and holding him close as she whispered, “Yes, let’s.”

~

From the nonchalant way Malfoy waltzed into her office, one would never have guessed how somber their last conversation had been. He was practically glowing as he entered, his eyes sweeping casually over her furnishings with obvious amusement.

A surprised greeting escaped her lips. “ _Malfoy?_ ” she asked, and he grinned at her in response.

“So you’ve finally made it into MLE. Congratulations, Granger.”

“It’s McLaggen now, actually.”

“Yes, that’s how you got in, isn’t it? I’m impressed. Sneaking into your department of choice using your husband’s connections—that’s a Slytherin move. I’d expect less from a Gryffindor. Well, I’m happy for you, Granger. This department’s where you deserve to be.”

Hermione bristled somewhat at being likened to a Slytherin, but she figured that Malfoy probably considered it a compliment. “What are you doing here?”

“That’s not very welcoming of you,” he said scoldingly, plopping down into the chair in front of her desk. “Can’t I stop by to say hello?”

“I just wanted to know whether there’s a reason you’re here.”

“To see how you’re doing. I heard about your transfer, and I wanted to check in.”

“Oh. Well, as you can see, I’m doing fine. How are you?”

“Wonderful. And how’s married life?”

His voice was bright and airy, and he seemed utterly relaxed, as though he were right at home in her tiny new office. There was nothing in his behavior to indicate that he wasn’t just popping in to chat with an old childhood friend.

“It’s… fine,” she said cautiously.

“Just fine?”

“Yes. Malfoy, why are you here?”

“Granger, this is insulting. I thought we were friends!”

“So you’re really just here to say hello?”

“Isn’t that what I said?” He smirked at her. “So how’s McLaggen? Is he enjoying being married to you?”

“What kind of a question is that?”

“A yes or no question, actually.”

“Maybe you should ask _him_.”

“You know, I can’t help but feel sorry for the chap. Can’t be easy being married to Hermione Granger.”

As little as Malfoy’s opinion meant to her, the words still stung. “Well,” she retorted, “luckily for you, that’s not _your_ problem.”

“Yes, how lucky for me,” he murmured, not looking as pleased as his words suggested. “And you? Are you happy with McLaggen?”

She groaned. “How many versions of the same question are you going to ask—”

“I’m asking about _you_ this time.”

“Yes, I’m very happy,” she said hastily, “and _he’s_ very happy, and we’re all very—”

“All right, all right. No need to get defensive.”

“I’m not _being_ defensive.”

“So are you going to make me tea, or are you planning on just having me sit here all afternoon with my thirst unquenched?”

She stared at him for several seconds before laughing in disbelief. “You want me to—what do you think this is, Malfoy, a tea shop?”

“Well, I’d call my house elf to do it, but I figured you’d be rather put out by that.”

“You’ll have to take your tea elsewhere.”

“But I want to hear all about your work.”

Hermione hesitated, and Malfoy flashed her an uncharacteristically angelic smile.

“Just this once,” she said.

“Of course,” he said innocently, but there was a devilish glint in his eyes that told her he knew she would relent.

~

“I miss working at the Ministry, you know.”

Hermione glanced over at Ron in surprise.

They were walking through a park in Muggle London, enjoying both the beautiful weather and the privacy afforded them by stepping outside of the wizarding world. It was an old tradition of theirs: escaping to the seclusion of this park to share secrets that meant nothing to the Muggle passersby and everything to them. Here, they could be surrounded by people and yet alone—they were together in their own world, one that those around them did not inhabit.

In the past, work had often kept Hermione from adhering to this particular tradition. But ever since she and Ron had salvaged their broken friendship, she had made more of an effort than ever before to make time for him in her life.

“I mean, you and Harry are always talking about all the cool, important things you’re doing at work, and here I am, accomplishing absolutely nothing. Selling jokes at a measly little shop which doesn’t even belong to me.”

“It’s not a measly little shop, Ron; it’s a really successful business, and you’re practically the co-owner—”

“It’s a joke shop chain,” he interrupted, “and it’s my brother’s.”

Remembering their bitter fights on this subject, she remained silent.

They walked soundlessly through trees covered in pale white flowers. She recalled how viciously they had once argued about his career, how ardently she had tried to convince him of the merits of public service. How she had later regretted those battles, those seeds of their relationship’s undoing— _she understood_ , he had said of Lavender. _Things were always so hard with us._

“You were right,” he said suddenly. “I should have stayed at my job as an Auror. I miss it, and now I can’t get it back.”

“I’m sure that’s not true,” she said reassuringly. “If you really want it back, I’m sure you can—”

“No, I really can’t get it back,” he said, looking stricken. “They’re not hiring at the moment.”

“Harry can get you in; he’s got loads of clout with the Auror Office, and he’s as high up as—”

“No,” he interrupted, shaking his head. “The new Head hates Harry. He’d never let me in.”

“Proudfoot?”

“Yeah. He’s one of those bitter purebloods, you know? Never liked Harry much, and he hates him even more now that he sees him as a threat. Thinks he’s an undeserving young up-and-comer trying to steal his job.”

“But that’s ridiculous—”

“It’s true. He’d never let Harry’s best friend in.”

Ron stopped walking and turned to face her. “What can I do, Hermione? As usual, I’ve mucked everything up.” He sighed. “I made a huge mistake leaving the Ministry.”

Her heart ached at the pain in his voice; she, too, had regrets about the past. She could not help wondering: was the Ministry the only thing he regretted leaving?

“There’s got to be something we can do,” she said. “I’ll talk to Cormac’s uncle. Maybe he can help.”

His expression brightened instantly. “You would do that for me?”

She smiled at him. “Of course, Ron. I want you to be happy.”

They resumed walking down the path as Ron broke into a huge grin. “You’re bloody amazing, Hermione. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

~

It was not unheard of for Malfoy to drop into her office unannounced, but the look he wore as he barged in, as though he’d just tasted something particularly unpleasant, was new and rather alarming.

“What’s wrong?” she asked hurriedly.

“You got Weasley his job back.”

Caught off guard, she looked at him blankly for a moment before responding, “I don’t know what you’re—”

“Don’t insult me with your sub-par acting, Granger. I heard all about how you got Tiberius McLaggen to _recommend_ him for the Auror Office. Are you still that hopelessly in love with him? That you would do anything for him, even use your own husband to—”

“Ron and I are _friends_ , a concept that someone like you might not understand—”

“You’re insane, you know that? What has Weasley ever done for you except use you and cause you heartache?”

“What?! Ron has _never_ —”

“And yet you’d leave it all behind for him in a heartbeat, wouldn’t you? You’d flush your career down the toilet if he asked. You’d throw your hard-won, perfect little trophy of a husband out the window the second Weasley offered.” Malfoy stepped closer, his eyes cold and cruel. “And yet—he _hasn’t_ offered, has he?”

Hermione’s voice caught in her throat. 

“He’s using you. He’s always depended on you, ever since he had you doing all his homework for him at Hogwarts. He strings you along until he needs you; and then somehow, in his excessively freckled presence, that great big brain of yours melts into a puddle and you turn into a lovesick little moron. For Merlin’s sake, Granger, what do you _see_ in him?”

“Of course _you_ see things that way,” she replied, her voice shaky and unnaturally loud. “Using people is second nature to you. You wouldn’t understand someone like Ron, who’s a good person with a kind heart and would never _use_ anyone. Friends help each other when they’re in need—”

“Really? When was the last time Weasley ever helped you with anything?”

“—and _I_ was the one who offered, Malfoy; he never asked me for anything. It was _my_ idea to talk to Tiberius, not his—”

“ _Wake up!_ ” he shouted, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “Of course he knew that you would offer. How long are you going to delude yourself into thinking that he wants you for anything more than taking care of him?”

“We are _friends_ , and we _care_ about each other!”

“Tell me, Granger, if he _cares_ so much about you—the way you’re so earnestly pretending that he does—why hasn’t he left his wife for you?”

Trembling with rage, Hermione struggled to keep her hand steady as she pointed towards the door. “Get out of my office.”

Malfoy clenched his jaw. “I’d be happy to,” he said bitterly, before turning and storming out into the hallway.


	8. Chapter 8

“It’s terrifying, Harry. Hate crimes haven’t been this bad since the war.”

Harry nodded solemnly. “The pureblood movement is getting stronger. I feel like I hear about a new incident every day.”

Hermione played with her quill absent-mindedly, levitating it off her desk and spinning it in the air as she furrowed her brow. “Something needs to be done, but no one wants to talk about the issue at the Ministry.”

“There are too many sympathizers now. They’re not even afraid to admit it in public anymore.”

“I’ve got to figure out a way to form a committee. It’s the only way we’ll ever be able to take any sort of action against—”

“Hermione, it’s nearly impossible to get the Ministry to form a committee on a _popular_ issue. With this? You don’t stand a chance.”

“It’s the only way,” she insisted. “We need more resources allocated in that direction. The anti-discrimination laws _need_ to be re-written from the inside out, and punishments need to be made harsher. Without a Ministry-backed task force to enact those kinds of changes, to crack down on enforcement and figure out where the problem lies—it’ll just get worse and worse.”

Harry leaned back in his chair and sighed. “It’s not that you’re wrong. It’s just—how are you going to get it approved? So, all right, you’ve got Higgs. That’s a big one. But you need the Senior Advisor to the Minister, and there’s no way Blishwick would ever give you the time of day. He barely speaks to anyone who hasn’t got the proper connections. And he’s from one of those very old pureblood families—can’t imagine him being too keen on fighting for Muggle-borns’ rights, if you know what I mean. Probably sympathized more with the Death Eaters than he lets on.”

Hermione spun her quill thoughtfully. “What if I got Blishwick?”

“How do you plan on—”

“Never mind that. What if I got Blishwick? Who else would I need?”

“Proudfoot. Can’t help you there, I’m afraid—the man despises me more each day.”

“Bertie’s his boss, though. Isn’t it enough to just persuade the department head?”

“No, a committee like that needs Auror support. You’d have to get Proudfoot.”

“What if I just approached him? How receptive do you think he’d be?”

“I doubt you’d make it all the way into his office. He’s always busy, obviously; and he was a Slytherin at school, so he instinctively hates Gryffindors until they can convince him otherwise.”

Groaning, she dropped her wand and let the floating quill fall back onto her desk. “So it’s pretty much hopeless.”

“Pretty much.” Harry leaned forward and clapped her on the shoulder. “I’m sorry, Hermione, I really am. I just think that for _right now_ , a committee’s too ambitious. But in the future—absolutely.”

“‘ _In the future_ ’ isn’t good enough,” she moaned.

He smiled and gave her a squeeze. “I have faith in you.”

“So if Proudfoot doesn’t like you, who _does_ he like? You’re one of the best Aurors in the department.”

Harry snorted. “He likes plenty of Aurors that aren’t me. But he’s got terrible taste—he’s a Slytherin, after all. You know who he’s married to? _Pansy Parkinson’s aunt._ ”

“ _Really?_ What’s she like?”

“Vile, unsurprisingly.”

They both laughed. “Anyone blood-related to Parkinson would have to be.”

~

“Is this seat taken?”

Hermione glanced up from her notes and found Malfoy towering over her.

“Go ahead,” she said, gesturing towards the chair beside her. “Shouldn’t you be inside the stadium watching?”

He sat down and immediately began reading over her shoulder. “I’m not a fan of the Harpies,” he replied. “Got dragged here by Zabini. Do you always bring your work when you attend Quidditch games?”

“I hate Quidditch games,” she confided, lowering her voice. “But Harry said it would mean a lot to him if we all came out to support Ginny, so…”

“Does sitting outside the stadium, eating Pumpkin Pasties and working, count as support?”

She laughed. “I suppose not. At least I can say I came, though.”

“So what are you working on?” he asked.

“I’m writing a proposal for the creation of a committee on blood status discrimination.”

“You mean an actual Ministry committee?”

“Yes, I’m trying to get Higgs’ support.”

Malfoy looked simultaneously impressed and bewildered. “Are you joking? An _official_ committee? You’ll need more than Higgs’ support for that.”

“I know,” she sighed. “But I only need the support of a very select few, and if I get Bertie, that’s one-third of the battle.”

“What?”

“One-third,” she repeated. “There are three people who have either the power or influence I need, and—” She bit her lip and turned to face him. “Malfoy, how well do you know Blishwick?”

His eyebrows shot up. “Very well. He’s an old family friend.”

“Really?” said Hermione, somewhat breathlessly. “That’s incredible. Do you think—”

He put up a hand to interrupt her. “I’ll talk to Blishwick.”

It was, at times, a little alarming how well Malfoy knew her. But what did it matter that he always seemed two steps ahead of her, as long as he was helping? She was so close to victory now that she could almost taste it.

“Malfoy, thank you so much. I can’t express how—”

“I’ll talk to Pansy, too. She’s Proudfoot’s niece.” He smirked. “But I’d wager you knew that already.”

She flushed a little, embarrassed at how easily he saw through her. “Thank you. Really. You don’t know how much—”

“There’s no need to thank me, Granger. I’m happy to help, so long as you don’t appoint Weasley to your committee.”

“I’m sorry?”

“You heard me. Don’t put Weasley on your committee, and I’ll be happy to help.”

“Ron? What does he have to do with anything?”

“I don’t care to see you hand him yet another job he didn’t earn.”

“What is your _problem_?” cried Hermione. “Why are you always—”

“I think it’s fairly obvious that my problem is Weasley.”

“Look, I don’t know what you have against Ron,” she snapped indignantly, “but he is one of my closest friends, and just because you can’t understand our relationship—”

“Your _relationship_?” Malfoy gave a dark, mirthless laugh. “What relationship?”

“—we started going out when we were both too young to handle things in a mature fashion, and we made a lot of mistakes, but that doesn’t mean that we don’t still love each other—”

“Have you conveniently forgotten that he chose to marry Brown even after you tossed your dignity out the window and _begged_ him not to? You threw yourself at him—and you know why it didn’t work, Granger? Because he couldn’t care less about your feelings. He doesn’t appreciate you. If he appreciated your intelligence, your strength—any of the best things about you—he wouldn’t have married that idiot of a tart. You’re fooling yourself, and you’re wasting your time on him.”

She rose angrily from her chair. “You know what, Malfoy? I think it’s best that we never speak of Ron again. We end up arguing every single time you mention his name.”

But before she turned to leave, she swallowed her pride and added, “Owl me about Blishwick.”

~

The four of them had lunch the following week: Malfoy, Pansy Parkinson, Proudfoot, and herself.

Hermione was certain she had never dined in stranger company.

Pansy and Malfoy arrived together, arm in arm; and it was bizarre seeing them as a pair again, acting polite and agreeable: an almost disconcerting change from how they’d behaved around her in school. Hermione had no idea how Malfoy had persuaded her to do it, but not only did Pansy introduce her to her uncle as “a dear friend from Hogwarts,” she actually _embraced_ her—if a bit awkwardly.

Yet no matter how much they feigned otherwise, the two of them had never once before engaged in a civil conversation and therefore had nothing to talk about. So, with forced smiles plastered uncomfortably on their faces, they pretended to catch up and struggled to hide the fact that they knew absolutely nothing about one another’s lives. Fortunately, Proudfoot did not seem to catch on to their act; he appeared oblivious to the considerable effort that they were devoting to the task of finding things to discuss.

When the most unnatural lunch Hermione had ever experienced was finally over (and she and Pansy had shared yet another discomfiting embrace), she walked with Proudfoot back to the Ministry and seized the opportunity to mention her idea for a new committee.

He looked appraisingly at her and said, “You know, I never saw Pansy as the type to make friends outside of her house at school. But I see why the two of you got along.”

Stifling her gag reflex, Hermione flashed her best attempt at a winning smile.

“I can tell that you’re just as outspoken as she is,” he went on.

“You’re right,” she replied delicately. “We _were_ both very outspoken at school.”

“Yes, I can imagine. Well, Hermione, I’d be happy to take a look at your proposal. It sounds very forward-thinking, and that’s always something I admire. You know, I _did_ have one friend in Gryffindor back at Hogwarts myself—an amusing chap. I still remember how he and I would always give each other hell about one thing or another…”

~

The next time Malfoy waltzed into her office uninvited, he was even more dressed up than usual. Wearing a long velvet cloak and a complacent expression, he dropped casually into the chair with which he was now well acquainted.

“Congratulations, Granger. In the course of one lunch, you appear to have thoroughly charmed the pants off of Proudfoot.”

“I wouldn’t use that particular saying.”

“Apparently he’s been talking Pansy’s ear off about you—saying how wonderful you are, how he sees you ‘going far’ at the Ministry. It’s driving her crazy. Well done.”

Hermione couldn’t fight back a smile. “I can’t thank you enough, Malfoy.”

“Yes, well, you certainly owe me for this one. In return for her cooperation, Pansy’s forcing me to take her to every single overpriced restaurant she’s ever wanted to go to.” He gestured to his robes. “Starting today.”

Suddenly recalling the intimate way he’d wrapped his arm around Pansy as they left lunch together, whispering quietly in each other’s ears, Hermione shifted uncomfortably in her chair.

“Aren’t you dating Astoria Greengrass?” she asked.

Malfoy gave her a strange look. “Where’d you hear that?”

She shrugged one shoulder in a vague, non-committal manner. “Well, aren’t you?”

His eyes scanned hers; and as he scrutinized her expression, the beginnings of a smile danced across his lips.

“You seem very interested in my personal life, Granger.”

“I’m only asking because you said you were taking Pansy out to dinner.”

Malfoy narrowed his eyes thoughtfully, but said nothing. He appeared to be inspecting her—his head tilted to the side as he stared curiously at her, his lips quirked upwards in a hint of a smirk. Whatever he was searching for, he must have found it; because then, in a tone that was somehow both patronizing and incredulous at the same time, he asked: “Are you _jealous?_ ”

“ _What?_ ” exclaimed Hermione, but he paid her no heed as he went on.

“Don’t tell me you’re actually—” He broke off, still watching her closely. The look on his face was now unbearably smug. “Are you _bothered_ that I’m going out to dinner with Pansy?”

“Of course not! I just thought that you were dating someone else, and—and—it wouldn’t be very appropriate, if you were!”

“I can’t believe it. Granger, I’m flattered. I had no idea you cared.”

“Malfoy, don’t be ridiculous—”

“But no, I’m not about to start up with Pansy again. I’m doing this for you, aren’t I? To get you your little committee?”

He was no longer taking the trouble of hiding his pleased grin, and Hermione could feel her cheeks reddening with heat. “I’m not _jealous_ of anyone, Malfoy. Your narcissism is borderline delusional.”

“You’re blushing, Granger.”

“That’s exactly the kind of delusional thinking I was talking about.”

“You know, if I’d known you felt this way, I would have—”

“ _For Merlin’s sake, Malfoy!_ ”

He laughed brightly. “All right, all right,” he said, standing up, “I’ll do the chivalrous thing and leave you to your embarrassment. Congratulations, again.”

With that, he sauntered out of her office, leaving Hermione frozen in her chair and staring after him.

~

The next time she saw him was in Flourish and Blotts. She was browsing through the recent arrivals when she caught sight of him and Pansy entering the store—and hoping to avoid an awkward conversation with the latter, she quickly ducked behind some shelves to hide.

“Well, of _course_ there are rumors flying about, Draco. You’ve been backing her pet causes at the Ministry for years now.”

“You’re exaggerating.”

“I’m just telling you what I’ve heard. _And_ seen, recently, with my own two eyes. You can’t be surprised that there are whispers about the two of you.”

Hermione watched as Malfoy picked up a copy of Rita Skeeter’s latest book and flipped casually through its pages. “You seemed a lot less keen on the gossipmongers when it was _you_ they were spreading lies about. Or have you already forgotten what happened last year, when you and Marcus Flint were—”

“ _Draco!_ ” hissed Pansy. “Lower your _voice_ ; there are people everywhere.”

“You see my point.”

“And don’t try to turn this around on me by changing the subject. I was exceptionally understanding when you asked for my help with her little scheme, even though you never gave me a proper reason for why you wanted to help her in the first place.”

“I told you, I could use the PR.”

“But you’re not publicizing your involvement,” Pansy said skeptically, making her way towards the cashier. “No one will know about your support.”

“On the contrary, Pansy—everyone _already_ knows. Isn’t that what you just said?”

“And there was that time you _bid_ on her at that date auction.”

“Yes, which made for the kind of press that money usually can’t buy.”

She threw him a suspicious glance, then turned aside to pay for her book. “I don’t know. Seems like an awful lot of work for just a little good press. And you don’t even need it, Draco, you’ve already bought your way back into the public’s good graces. Are you _sure_ you don’t have ulterior motives for backing Granger?”

Malfoy snorted dismissively. “Tell me you don’t actually believe all the rubbish that comes out of the Ministry’s over-active rumor mill.”

“Well, I didn’t believe it at _first_ —but after you spent so much effort convincing me to talk her up to Proudfoot, I can’t help but think that there’s some truth to what people are saying.”

“Let them think that, then,” he said nonchalantly. “Can’t hurt my reputation, can it?”

Hermione’s fingers closed more tightly around the edges of the paperback in her hand.

Pansy murmured something too quiet for her to hear, and Malfoy made a gesture of vague annoyance as they left the store. Once they had gone, Hermione looked down and was surprised to see the crumpled pages clenched tightly in her angry fist.

~

The Wizard Rights Protection Committee was signed into existence with all of the fanfare that usually accompanied such proceedings—and the day that the Minister appointed Hermione as its head was the day that she became a _name_ at the Ministry.

It was Higgs who officially commissioned the committee, and it was Blishwick who suggested to the Minister behind the scenes that a white paper on the topic of blood status equality might prove politically advantageous. Proudfoot came forward publicly to give the committee his blessing and authorized Hermione to select as members the Aurors of her choosing. Unsurprisingly, the first two members she recruited were Harry and Ron.

Malfoy was exceedingly bitter about her decision, but she informed him coldly that it was not his place to run her committee for her and that he had no say in her work. She did offer him a seat on the committee, but he replied unambiguously that he had no interest in actually entering politics.

“I see,” she said crisply. “You want to play the part of reformed Death Eater, helping to rebuild a just society; but you don’t want to do any of the work.”

He frowned in response. “I don’t know that that’s fair, Granger.”

She smiled thinly at him before walking away. “Life isn’t fair, Malfoy.”

~

Harry and Ron undoubtedly knew how the committee had come about; but though they had most likely discussed the rumors of Malfoy’s involvement amongst themselves, they never asked Hermione about them. Instead, they diligently avoided the subject—even when Cormac took them all out for a celebratory dinner and commented on just how _unbelievable_ it was that Hermione had managed to accomplish something seemingly impossible on her own, this early in her career. She braced herself for a confrontation the next time they were alone, but even then, Harry and Ron said nothing about it. It seemed that they had simply been forced to accept the fact that, for some bizarre reason they neither knew nor understood, Hermione had developed an alliance with a man that they once considered their mortal enemy.

Nonetheless, the whole situation was easier for both of them to handle if they opted to ignore it (which was easily accomplished by never so much as mentioning Malfoy’s name). In fact, it was not until the Ministry’s annual Christmas party that either of them even had to acknowledge his existence.

Everyone had brought their spouses, and they all spent the evening mingling with other married couples and reminiscing about Hogwarts, as people always resorted to doing at these events when they could think of nothing else to talk about. Malfoy attended with Pansy, and Hermione focused most of her energy throughout the night on evading the two of them; if ever they came too close for comfort, she would turn and steer Cormac purposefully through the crowd in the other direction.

Her efforts were successful until late in the evening, when, as she and Cormac stood chatting with Proudfoot and his wife by the eggnog, she suddenly heard an unpleasantly familiar voice shriek from behind, “Aunt Azalea!”

It was too late to flee. Pansy rushed past her to embrace her aunt and uncle, and it was only as she turned back around to look for Malfoy that she realized her mistake.

Pansy’s eyes grew as wide as saucers.

“Hello, Pansy,” said Hermione, as warmly as she could.

“Hermione,” choked Pansy. The two of them stared briefly at one another before awkwardly leaning in to kiss each other on the cheek.

“Pansy, I think you know my husband, Cormac.”

“Yes, of course… hello.”

Malfoy, who had been trailing leisurely behind his date, appeared on her left just as Ron arrived from her right.

“You two staying much longer?” asked Ron. “Lavender’s just gone home with Ginny.”

Then he glanced around at their company and froze.

“Weasley, you must know my niece,” Proudfoot said genially. “Didn’t you all go to school together?”

“Y-yes,” Ron stammered. “Nice to see you again.”

Pansy forced her lips into an unconvincing impression of a smile.

“They were all in the same year, actually,” said Cormac. “Except for me, that is.”

Malfoy, who had been busy exchanging greetings with Azalea Proudfoot, finally turned his attention in their direction.

“Mr. and Mrs. McLaggen,” he said, nodding slightly. It was the first time Hermione had ever heard him address her by her married name.

Cormac nodded back. “Good to see you, Malfoy.”

“Enjoying the party?” Malfoy asked, ignoring Ron entirely.

“The Ministry really goes all out for these affairs, doesn’t it?” replied Cormac. “We just went to the Gringotts Christmas party a few days ago, and they were a bit tighter with the pursestrings. The economy being what it is, you know.”

“You know, I thought about going to that.”

“You didn’t miss much. Still play Quidditch at all?”

“Not as much as I’d like. How about you?”

“Got no time for it. I keep saying that I’ll get some flying in one of these days, but it’s been ages.”

“I always thought it was strange that you never played for Gryffindor at school.”

“Didn’t try out until my last year. Then this clown stole my spot,” said Cormac, gesturing towards Ron.

Somehow, Ron appeared even more unnerved than Hermione at the sight of Malfoy casually chatting with her husband. “I wouldn’t say _stole_ ,” he said, looking extremely uncomfortable.

“He was an awful Keeper,” Cormac went on. “But I had a spot of bad luck during tryouts, and he got lucky.”

“ _Cormac_ ,” she warned in a reprimanding tone, but he barely seemed to hear her.

“I remember,” Malfoy said amusedly. His voice was deceptively pleasant, but his eyes were merciless and sharp as daggers. “We used to sing a song about what a terrible Quidditch player he was.”

“Really?” asked Proudfoot, suddenly taking an interest in their conversation. “Is that true, Weasley?”

Ron opened his mouth to speak, but Cormac cut him off. “I _forgot_ about that! How’d it go again?”

For an instant, Hermione was terrified for Ron (who looked positively miserable) that Malfoy would actually start singing the song in question; but he merely smirked and said, “I’m sure Weasley remembers.”

“An entire song?” said Proudfoot. “That’s a bit embarrassing, Weasley. Aurors need good reflexes.”

“Ron’s reflexes were fine,” she said hurriedly. “I think Cormac just hasn’t quite gotten over his loss.”

“Rubbish,” said Cormac. “I was a damn good Keeper, and Weasley was a—”

“Ron was a _perfectly_ good keeper,” she interrupted. “Don’t be childish.”

Cormac looked indignant, but before he could say anything, an old friend of his approached and interrupted their conversation. After he’d invited Cormac to come meet his wife and the two of them had vanished into the crowd together, Hermione turned to Ron, who was visibly shaken, and lowered her voice.

“It’s all right,” she told Ron quietly. “Don’t worry.”

She could feel Malfoy watching her, his eyes steady and penetrating.

Even later, when she’d left the party with Cormac, she could still feel the weight of those eyes.

The memory would rise unbidden to the forefront of her mind, and the unsettling feeling in her stomach would grow once more—and she would remember what it felt like to have him stare calmly at her, looking straight through her as though she were only a fragile sheet of glass.


	9. Chapter 9

It was on her way out of a meeting that she heard the news. She had scarcely left the conference room when a co-worker pulled her aside and whispered urgently in her ear.

Hermione went numb.

She collapsed against the wall and struggled to understand, to wrap her mind around this new, unwanted knowledge. She locked herself in her office and waited for tears that never came. She left work early and walked aimlessly by the river, then went home to stare at a closet full of his clothes and to breathe in the air of a flat still full of his things.

But try as she might, she could not bring herself to believe that he was truly gone.

It was not until the funeral that it finally seemed any different from his being away in Egypt. It was only then that she felt it—and she felt it all at once, in an explosive rush of feelings that she could not control. She was angry and sad and terrified and suddenly alone; and why had she never gone to Egypt, like he had wanted?

She had been unprepared. She would have been different, if she’d known. She would have done everything differently. The guilt that plagued her was overwhelming, and the sense of loss was far greater than she could ever have imagined—far stronger than any love she had ever felt for him before, while he was still alive. If only she’d somehow stopped him from going to work that week. Why had she not begged him to stay? Why had she not known? Couldn’t another curse-breaker have entered the tomb first? Why did it have to be him?

She had been a bad wife. She had neglected him; she had loved another man. She could not accept this ending to their story. She wanted to start over. _Could she start over?_ She thought restlessly of Time Turners and resurrection. 

She broke down crying in public, which she hated doing, and Harry escorted her home. Her flat, which she had mostly inhabited alone during their marriage, suddenly felt empty. The bed in which she had spent so many nights on her own now seemed tragic and lonely, and she was frightened to lie in it.

She slept on the sofa instead.

~

For the first time since she’d started working for the Ministry, Hermione took a week off. On her fifth day of rest, Malfoy knocked on her door.

“How did you know where I live?” she asked, bleary-eyed.

“I’ve known for a long time,” he said simply.

Too exhausted to inquire further, she let him in and collapsed wearily onto the sofa that now served as her bed. “Why are you here?”

“Are you all right?”

“I’m alive, aren’t I?”

“You look terrible.”

She snorted. “Thank you.”

He glanced around the room. “Was this your flat or his?”

“You didn’t come to the funeral,” she said, ignoring his question.

“I didn’t think it would be appropriate.”

She looked at him strangely, and he cleared his throat. “I’m not here to ask about McLaggen.”

“Why are you here, then?”

“I want you to marry me.”

There was a moment of silence.

Hermione blinked a few times, as if to clear her vision. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I heard you correctly; I—”

“I’m asking you to marry me,” he repeated calmly.

She gaped at him in shock. “Is this some sort of sick joke?”

“If it is, the joke’s on me.”

“You want to _marry_ me?” she asked incredulously.

“I’ve waited a long time, Granger, and I’ve waited patiently. For a while, I thought you were a lost cause, but—”

She rose suddenly from the sofa. “My husband just died _this week_.”

“That’s why I’m here.”

Hermione laughed disbelievingly. “My God. I knew you were a despicable creature, but I had no idea you were this—”

“That’s why I didn’t attend the funeral,” he interrupted. “I didn’t want to be _that_ rude to McLaggen.”

“But you thought it was acceptable to drop in on his mourning widow and propose to her?”

“You can act as shocked as you want, Granger, but you of all people should know about the importance of seizing opportunities. I wasn’t expecting this particular opportunity; but now that it’s here, I’m not about to pass it up.”

“Well, I’m sorry, Malfoy, but I’m not interested in marrying you. So it looks like you’ll have to search for another opportunity elsewhere. Maybe you can browse the obituaries for other young widows; I’m sure there’s—”

“Drop the innocent widow act,” he snapped. “You might have cared a great deal about McLaggen, but I know you didn’t love him; and you haven’t even heard me out yet.”

“What about your bloodline?”

“I told you I don’t care about that.”

“No, you told me that it would be good publicity for you to be seen dating a Muggle-born.”

“You weren’t listening, then.”

She stared at him in amazement. “You actually care _so_ much about how you appear in the public eye that you want to _marry_ someone you don’t love?”

“Merlin, Granger, it’s not about publicity.”

“Then what is it about? Are you just lonely in that enormous manor of yours?”

“I don’t want to marry just anyone,” he exclaimed, looking agitated, “I’m asking to marry _you_. You’re the only woman I know who can keep up with me—who can _challenge_ me—and I haven’t been able to find someone else. Merlin knows I tried, after I missed my chance and you went after McLaggen like a hawk—but it didn’t work. I need _you_ , Granger.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I can’t imagine why this is coming as such a surprise, considering the fact that I’ve spent years keeping track of you and doing your bidding!”

Stunned, she dropped back onto the sofa.

“I—I can’t marry you, Malfoy. I can’t believe you thought that we were at a point where we could even discuss this possibility.”

“Why not? We would make ideal partners, and—”

“I don’t love you.”

His eyes hardened. “Yes, of course,” he said, his voice suddenly brittle. “You’re still in love with Weasley. But that can change. I’ll make you forget him.”

“It’s not Ron at all.”

“Then what could—”

“You were a bloody _Death Eater_ , Malfoy!” she cried. “I was nearly _killed_ by your friends and family. Not to mention that you spent your entire adolescence deriding me for my blood status, insulting me, humiliating me—and now you think that just because _you’ve_ changed your mind, it’s all over and done with? We may be on civil terms now—we may even be friends—but I could never forgive you for the things you’ve done.”

When he spoke again, his voice was strained, but his expression was entirely unapologetic. “I told you,” he said, “I was young and stupid. I made mistakes. But I also had to save my own hide, and I would do it again if I had to.”

“So you don’t even think you did anything wrong!”

“I was born into it, Granger; I had no choice. I did terrible things—things I never want to think about again—but I had to save my own hide, and that’s the exact same thing I’m doing now. You think I enjoy palling around with those rotten Ministry officials?”

“You actually believe that _serving Voldemort_ is the same as bribing politicians?”

“It’s all a matter of who’s in power, isn’t it?” he asked grimly. “Keeping whoever’s in power happy. The people that you seem to think are on the ‘right’ side are just as corrupt as I am, and I don’t deserve to be pigeonholed as a villain.”

She shook her head, speechless; and he moved to sit on the sofa beside her. “Listen to me, Granger. I would make an ideal husband for you—better than McLaggen. I can offer you more than he could in terms of connections, support, gold, everything. I know he wasn’t active in public life, and I know he couldn’t have cared less about your career.”

“Don’t speak ill of the dead,” she whispered.

“We’re alike, you and I. We’re both outsiders, fighting our way in.”

“How can you compare—”

“I know you don’t see it, Granger, but we’re the same kind of person. We’re opportunists. Different reasons or not, we’re both on the outside; and you and I are willing to do whatever it takes to earn our spot in respected society. And we can do it together, as a team. We would make the kind of power couple the wizarding world hasn’t seen for centuries.”

“You’re mad,” she murmured.

He inched closer. “Can you honestly tell me that you don’t want someone like me as a partner?”

“I don’t,” she replied firmly, looking him in the eye.

All of a sudden, Malfoy moved swiftly in her direction, and she instinctively pulled back until she found herself pressed against the arm of the sofa. He leaned forward and placed one hand on either side of her, effectively trapping her where she was.

“You don’t want me?” he asked quietly, his face mere inches from hers.

“No,” she breathed.

And then he crushed his lips against hers, and the world went dark.

She told herself, at first, that she would have stopped him, had it been possible for her to move. But her back was jammed so tightly up against the sofa that she was nearly dangling backwards off its arm, and so there was nowhere to go but forward, into _him_. That was the only reason she was letting him kiss her, she told herself—the only reason she was letting his hands slide slowly up her arms and neck before nestling snugly under her jaw to cup her face.

She didn’t remember closing her eyes, or clutching at his shirt to pull him closer; but when his tongue swiped teasingly over her bottom lip and she heard herself moan, she realized how completely she had lost control of herself.

He pulled back without letting go and asked again: “Tell me you don’t want me.”

“I don’t want you,” she repeated, now more challenge than statement; and this time he was savage as he grabbed her by the waist and pulled her flush against him, kissing her in a way that made it hard for her to catch her breath.

Could she marry him? He was right that they would make an unstoppable team. He could get her places. It was, perhaps, the smart, rational decision for her to make—for her career, of course. She would be a fool to say no. And what was it he had said about seizing opportunities?

She had just barely managed to stop herself from climbing on top of him in an effort to get even closer when he stopped and asked again. He had scarcely finished saying the words when she blurted out, “Yes.”

~

Hermione regretted her decision as soon as he’d left her flat.

She did have the odd feeling that she and Malfoy might make for excellent partners in crime: she had often suspected that he knew her better than anyone else in her life, even Cormac or Ron or Harry. But, in the heat of the moment, she had completely forgotten how much she loathed him. She’d been uncharacteristically consumed with passion, and it was only after he’d left that she remembered what a heartless, conniving bastard he was.

She’d made an arse of herself, and she so dreaded speaking to him after their encounter that she seriously considered simply ignoring him and pretending as if the whole ordeal had never happened. Perhaps if she worked hard enough at avoiding him, she could get away with never seeing him again. 

But when Malfoy sent her an owl that same day, she knew that hiding was futile.

_I didn’t want to miss the opportunity, so I rushed and came too soon. Waiting less than a week to propose was, perhaps, in poor taste._

_Would six months be an appropriate amount of time?_

~

They did not have a wedding.

Harry remembered all too well how their friendship had barely survived her engagement to Cormac, and so he struggled not to judge this second and far more controversial coupling. Hermione could not bring herself to tell Ron directly, and even after Harry informed him, Ron seemed unwilling—or unable—to discuss the development with her. And with neither of Malfoy’s parents still alive, they ended up facing little opposition from family.

She refused to live at the Manor at first, worrying that it would be a constant reminder of her torture. She was surprised at how easily he acquiesced. Her pride kept her from telling him her reasons for not wanting to live there, but he agreed nonetheless, saying that they only had to stay there for the time being, until they found a more suitable home.

When she arrived on her wedding night, however, she found the place completely unrecognizable.

“You redid the _entire_ mansion?” she asked him in surprise, as they entered the beautifully redecorated drawing room.

He didn’t look at her as he replied: “I didn’t want it to remind me of things that happened during the war.”

The place had been so thoroughly changed that Hermione ended up being content to stay, though she never actually said so out loud—doing so would have required her to admit her reasons for not wanting to stay in the first place. So, as the months passed, she simply never brought it up again. 

The stress leading up to their first night together in the Manor proved to be almost unbearable. Hermione had no idea whether she was supposed to sleep with Malfoy or not—after all, this wasn’t exactly a traditional marriage. Or was it?

Did he expect to have a normal wedding night? Was that what _she_ wanted?

When they had finished their cursory tour of the Manor and it was finally time for bed, she stood awkwardly in his room as he began undressing. He removed his shirt, revealing the unmistakable jet black ink of the Dark Mark on his left arm, and she stared at it for a full minute before realizing that he was watching her expectantly, seemingly waiting for her reaction. She quickly looked away and sat down on the bed.

“Are you going to sleep in your robes?” he asked with amusement.

“I’m sure _you_ have no problem undressing in front of strange women, but personally, I find it a bit uncomfortable.”

“We’re strangers now? My mistake—I thought we were married.” He walked around to the other side of the bed and started to take off his trousers.

Hermione had nearly resigned herself to the idea that Malfoy might see theirs as a traditional marriage after all, when he suddenly turned towards her with an unreadable expression.

“Have you ever slept with Weasley?” he demanded abruptly.

“ _What?_ ”

“You heard me.”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Is that a yes?” he asked impatiently.

Hermione jumped up from the bed, eyes narrowed. “Why are you asking me this now?”

“I want to know what I’m dealing with.”

“Then I’ll tell you,” she said sharply. “I want a separate bedroom.”

Malfoy’s eyes widened. “What?”

“You heard me,” she repeated, staring up at him defiantly.

“Fine,” he said coldly. “I’ll show you to another room.”

The truth was that Cormac was the only man Hermione had ever been with. But she had never been so insulted in her life, and she had no desire to respond to his infuriatingly disrespectful questioning. And she would be damned if she was going to sleep with a man who thought he could talk to her that way.

He led her down the hall to an unused bedroom and glared at her as she asked, in a lofty tone, whether the door locked.

“Trust me, you won’t have to worry about that,” he snapped, before slamming the door shut and stalking off towards his room.

~

Their wedding night appeared to set the tone for the rest of their marriage.

Draco left her alone after that first night, too proud to face rejection a second time, and Hermione remained unforgiving of the slight to her dignity. They fought constantly, with Draco routinely insulting her and giving her new reasons to be furious with him. Her strategy for avoiding such conflict was to spend as much time at work as humanely possible, staying late at the Ministry so that she would not have to return home to the Manor.

Just one month into their marriage, they had already established several unending arguments that they returned to time and time again: their social calendar, the house elves, and, of course, Ron. Hermione did not want to attend every single one of Draco’s schmoozy social events (of which there were many), while he insisted charmingly that “the point of having a wife is to have someone to bring to those events.” They had exactly zero friends in common, and they were each stubbornly unwilling to spend time with the other’s social circle. Against his wishes, she freed the house elves—although once she found that they were inexplicably miserable outside of servitude, she relented and eventually took them back. And not a day went by that he didn’t make some biting remark about Ron’s intelligence or question the unnatural extent to which she and Ron were constantly working together.

Other popular subjects included Hermione’s habit of showing up late to almost all of their appointments, as well as Draco’s tendency to constantly belittle the Ministry and its policies. She made cruel references to his Dark Mark. He mocked her hair. She shouted at him to take down all the family portraits that yelled bigoted things at her as she passed. He told her that she was “intolerable and beyond impossible to live with.”

She often wondered why he had even wanted to marry her in the first place.

~

The first time someone called her Mrs. Malfoy was in Gringotts.

Hermione almost turned around, half-expecting Narcissa Malfoy to be standing behind her.

Draco noticed, and he shot her a look of utter hatred as they climbed into their cart.

~

Hermione and Ron went out to dinner one night after work, and she was so reluctant to end the evening and go home that she asked him to have a drink with her afterwards.

“On a weeknight?” he asked, surprised. “That’s not like you. But it sounds pretty good to me.”

“I have tons of liquor in my office,” she said. “People keep giving me alcohol as a gift, even though they know I’m not much of a drinker. I wonder what that says about me.”

“They think you need to unwind a little,” he laughed, and she punched him in the arm.

When they got to her office, she rummaged around in her closet before pulling out two glasses and a bottle of mead.

“Lumbard gave me this,” she said, pouring generously. “Apparently it’s some ridiculously expensive oak-matured mead. Here.”

She reached out to hand him a glass, but he recoiled, his face suddenly ashen.

“No,” he said abruptly. “N-no thank you. I haven’t had mead since…” He trailed off, leaving the thought unfinished.

They stood in awkward silence until Hermione vanished the mead out of the glasses and said, “Something else, then.” Finding a bottle of red currant rum, she poured out two glasses and added hastily, “This is my favorite, anyway.”

Ron said nothing, but he took the glass she offered and downed it in one gulp.

“I remember how frightening that was,” she said softly. “Back at school.”

He nodded. “A lot’s changed,” he said uncomfortably, staring at the empty glass in his hands.

“Listen, Ron—”

“How can you sleep with him at night?” he said suddenly. “After everything he put us through?”

It was the first time he had ever spoken of her new marriage.

“It drives me crazy to think about the two of you together,” he continued. “I mean, marrying McLaggen was one thing, but for the love of Merlin, Hermione— _Malfoy?_ I mean, are you a _Malfoy_ now?”

Hermione didn’t know what to say. There was nothing to be said; her marriage was shameful and embarrassing and egregiously unlike her. And yet, as mortified as she was, a part of her saw the jealousy in his words and could not help but feel hopeful.

“It’s not that simple, Ron,” she said. “Draco’s changed a lot since the war, and—”

He shook his head. “I just can’t believe it. I mean, is he good to you? Do you actually behave like a married couple? Are you going to have chi—”

“We sleep in separate bedrooms,” she blurted out.

Ron looked at her then, and something in his eyes brightened considerably. “Really?”

~

When she arrived home that night, Draco was reading the Prophet in the sitting room.

“Working late with Weasley again?” he called from the sofa, and she gave an irritated sigh.

“Please don’t start with that again.”

“He’s made yet another idiotic blunder at work, you know.”

She turned to face him. “What?”

He glanced up and snorted. “ _That_ got your attention.”

“What happened?”

“Apparently, Weasley’s on the verge of getting sacked. I heard he let a highly-ranked Undesirable slip through his hands because he failed to attack on sight.”

“He didn’t mention that to me.”

“Yes, well, maybe he didn’t want to admit to you that he can’t cast a spell to save his life. Or maybe he didn’t want to tell you that the Undesirable in question is the notorious Cauldron Killer.”

Hermione froze. “The Cauldron Killer?”

“That’s right,” he replied maliciously. “Not exactly a model WRP committee member, is he? Letting the most notorious murderer of Muggle-borns in Britain go free?”

“Don’t be cruel.”

“What a _champion_ for the cause.”

“Isn’t it enough for you that he might get fired? Do you really feel the need to go on and on about a single mistake?”

“Read the report,” said Draco, taking a roll of parchment from the sofa and tossing it onto the table in front of her. “The Auror Office describes it as an error that no sober Auror should have made. It’s almost hilarious, except that it’s actually a complete catastrophe.”

Hermione was dying to read it, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of watching her.

When she started to turn away without picking up the report, he sniffed loudly and returned to his paper. “I can’t imagine how someone so spineless and incompetent ever qualified to be an Auror.”

“Stop it,” she snapped.

“Yes, of course—he _didn’t_ qualify. He was invited, wasn’t he, just because he happened to be Potter’s useless little sidekick? That explains it.”

“What makes you think you have the right to mock Ron’s accomplishments or question his commitment to wizard rights? He’s always stood up for Muggle-borns, ever since we were children! And it might be a hard concept for a former Death Eater to understand, but just because some people have a hard time killing on sight doesn’t mean that they’re not committed to fighting for a cause.”

“That may be,” Draco said frostily, “but I notice that he married a pureblood witch just the same.”

The words burned.

Her eyes stung with tears, and she fought them back as she tried to ignore the pain building in her chest.

“At least he’s not a coward,” she spat, and she was pleased to see him flinch in response. Spurred on by his show of weakness, she went further. “At least he’s not a worthless, over-privileged scumbag,” she continued. “A slimeball who’s bribed his way out of the punishment he deserves.”

“I’d stop if I were you,” he said dangerously.

“A murderer. A common criminal. A gutless—”

Draco jumped up from the sofa and stepped menacingly in her direction. There was something sharp and savage in his eyes that frightened her, though she was determined not to let him see it. Her heart was racing, but she stood her ground as he approached until he was so close that she could see her own reflection in the silvery depths of his eyes.

Then he said, in a slow, terrifying voice: “I’ll wring your neck if you so much as lay a finger on Weasley.”

“Don’t you dare touch me,” she said threateningly, and his eyes flashed with anger.

“You’re my wife. I’ll touch you whenever and wherever I like.”

She refused to let him know how scared she was. Glaring at him as brazenly as she could, she waited until he turned and left the room, then let out a deep breath that she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.


	10. Chapter 10

One night, when the tip of Hermione’s quill snapped off in the middle of a sentence, she snuck into Draco’s study to look for a new one. The man was meticulously organized, and she rolled her eyes when she saw that the surface of his desk was completely devoid of any quills or parchment.

She pulled open the topmost drawer and was about to rummage through it for quills when something else caught her eye.

There, lying on top of a neat stack of parchment, was an old photograph that she recognized from years ago, now faded and yellowing with age. She picked it up and stared at herself shaking the Minister’s hand, beaming at the camera as she enjoyed her first taste of success at the Ministry. The clipping still bore lines where she’d folded it, and its edges were rough and uneven from having been ripped hastily out of the paper.

She couldn’t believe he still had it after all these years.

She watched the scene over and over before replacing the picture in his desk, where he’d kept it so carefully, and shutting the drawer. Then she left the study, having forgotten entirely why she’d entered.

~

Hermione had not seen George in over a year when she ran into him outside the Leaky Cauldron. So she took him up on his offer of lunch, and once they’d exchanged the usual pleasantries and caught up over Butterbeer, he broached a subject that neither Harry nor Ron had been brave enough to explore. 

“So, I have to ask,” he said. “Are you actually happy with Malfoy?”

She smiled uncomfortably in response. “I’m fine, George.”

“Yeah, but—that’s not the same as being happy, is it? I know you can handle yourself, Hermione, but I just want to make sure you know what you’re doing.”

Hermione looked down at her Butterbeer and laughed darkly. “Well, if that’s what you’re asking—then no, I can’t quite say that I do.”

~

The Manor was far too big for one married couple—even a married couple that slept in separate bedrooms. It didn’t help that Hermione spent so much time at the Ministry that she’d barely had a chance to explore the place. At least twice a month, she got lost and wandered blindly around the halls before calling for a house elf to come rescue her.

But when she made a wrong turn on her way to the Owlery, having been misguided by a mischievous portrait, she accidentally stumbled upon something far better: the library.

Draco found her hours later, still staring up in awe at the shelves, her unsent letter long forgotten. She was clutching a stack of books that she had already selected for reading, and she was so mesmerized by the treasures before her that she didn’t even notice him enter.

“How’d you find it?” he asked, and she was so startled that she nearly tripped over the carpet as she turned to face him.

“Oh—um, I just—I found it by accident.”

He was wearing an odd, almost dreamy expression as he walked up to her, as though he were lost in his own reverie.

“Every day that I’ve been in here for the past several years,” he said softly, growing closer and closer until his lips were hovering just over hers, “I’ve thought about what your face would look like the first time you saw it.”

She kissed him then, for the first time since the day he’d proposed, and it was everything their marriage was not—soft, warm, tender. When he responded eagerly, arms snaking around her waist to pull her closer, she dropped the books and reached for him with both hands.

His fingers slipped under the hem of her blouse, gliding up her back, while hers fumbled with the clasp of his robes. She pressed her hands against his chest impatiently, feeling the lines of his body before she could see them; while he slowly dragged his palms up the backs of her thighs, then up further still. She kissed him more urgently, wrapping one leg around his waist and leaning into him as she slid her hands inside the fabric of his shirt and over the heat of his bare skin. When he buried his face in the crook of her neck and ground roughly against her in response, she felt as though they would never be close enough.

Her last coherent thought before he pulled her down onto the floor was how ironic it was that, despite having waited months to consummate their marriage, they were now too impatient to wait until they were even close to undressed.

~

Later, she regretted asking for a separate bedroom, though she was too proud to admit it.

They continued to sleep apart; but he woke her on some nights, sliding into her bed beside her while she was still asleep. On those nights, they made frantic, desperate love, emboldened by the darkness and the emotional protection it afforded. On those nights, she clung to him with a vulnerability that she could never have shown in daylight.

Then, when dawn had broken, they returned to wearing their usual masks.

Their relationship was passionate but tumultuous, and it was nothing resembling a normal marriage—but then again, what had she expected, marrying Draco Malfoy? Life was suddenly a roller coaster in which she could never predict what awaited her each day. Draco was witty and smart, but he could also be spiteful and terribly cruel. When the two of them were on the same side, there was no stopping them: no one understood each other or got along as well as they did. But when they fought, they were the bitterest of enemies; that they knew each other so well also meant that they knew better than anyone how to hit one another where it hurt most.

It was frustrating, maddening, vaguely thrilling. What was there to do besides succumb to the ride and hang on for dear life?

~

For Christmas, Draco got her Clemens’ job. It was one of the top posts in the department; and it came with a spacious corner office, an assistant, and a seat on the Wizengamot. Hermione had not thought it possible—whoever was in charge of overseeing legislation had an unthinkable amount of power and influence, and surely such a position could not be _bought_ —but it seemed that Draco’s clout with the Ministry knew no bounds.

Hermione’s Christmas present to Draco was a book.

She wanted to thank him somehow, so she asked him out for a celebratory dinner and made her first effort as a married woman to impress her husband. While he waited downstairs, in the drawing room, she put on the only sexy dress she had and pulled her hair up into a tight chignon.

The look on his face when she entered seemed strangely familiar, and as he stared numbly at her from across the room, she realized that she’d seen it once before—at the Yule Ball in fourth year.

They never made it to dinner.

Within seconds, he’d backed her into the wall and twisted one hand into her updo to unravel it— _half an hour’s work wasted_ , she thought to herself—while slipping her dress down over her shoulders with the other. His mouth was hot and wet against the side of her neck, then her collarbone, then her stomach, and then somewhere else entirely.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, right before she lost herself completely, she had the dark thought that this was not the first time this room had been filled with her screams.

~

Hermione’s new role in the MLE not only gave her the power to pass reforms on house elf rights, but it also afforded her a political importance that made it easier to recruit S.P.E.W. donors than ever before. Countless Ministry officials—as well as other individuals interested in the fate of various pending legislation—were suddenly deeply interested in the small organization Hermione had helmed since her fourth year at Hogwarts.

Expressing his disdain for the small, unremarkable fundraisers she had always hosted, Draco insisted on throwing a lavish benefit in her stead. “You’re a Malfoy now,” he sniffed, “and I won’t have you embarrassing me.”

The impressive party he planned on S.P.E.W.’s behalf ended up being the event of the season. Tickets sold so fast that they moved the benefit from the Manor to a larger venue that could accommodate more guests. Hermione gave a passionate speech on the state of elf rights and the importance of compassion, and S.P.E.W. raised record numbers in a single night.

Throughout the evening, he stood at her side, one hand affectionately tucked around her waist as he hobnobbed with the guests, the very image of a supportive and loving husband. The ingratiating smile he wore as he charmed his way through conversations, talking up S.P.E.W. and its accomplishments, suddenly seemed less irritating to Hermione than it had in the past. Yes, everything about his flattering demeanor was false— _and he was so_ good _at faking it, too_ —but from this angle, with him on her side, it seemed less infuriating somehow. Endearing, even.

Hermione knew it was not real, but she couldn’t stop herself from enjoying the feeling, if only for a night, of having a husband who was there for her—who cared about her. She dreaded the end of the event: the moment when all the attendees would clear out and she would be left alone with him. She knew what would happen. The illusion would evaporate before her eyes; and just as if Cinderella’s clock had struck midnight, her adoring husband would transform back into his usual guarded self.

So she smiled, too, and watched wistfully as he expertly maneuvered his way through conversation after conversation, occasionally turning to look at her in a way that felt so convincingly tender, it was hard to believe it wasn’t genuine.


	11. Chapter 11

One year into their marriage, Hermione had still not spent a single night in Draco’s bed.

She ventured out of her bedroom for the first time on the night before their anniversary, when, after much deliberation, she walked down the hall to his room and entered with knocking. Draco sat up in surprise and stared at her.

“Can I stay here?” she asked.

“Of course,” he replied, observing her warily. “You’re my wife, aren’t you?”

Hermione made her way to the bed and slipped under the covers beside him, trying her best to conceal her nervousness. “Did you know that tomorrow’s our anniversary?” she asked, as lightly as she could.

“Yes, I did.” He gave her a strange look. “Were you upset that I hadn’t said anything?”

“No, I just—thought you should know.”

“That it’s been one year?”

She nodded. “It sounds like a long time, doesn’t it? But it really hasn’t felt that way at all.”

He did not answer, watching her with guarded eyes instead. “Why are you here?” he asked, his voice quiet and lacking warmth.

The question took her by surprise. She opened her mouth to respond, but could not seem to form words.

It was so easy to forget sometimes, with everything they’d been through, that he had only married her for political reasons. He’d even said as much to her when he’d proposed, hadn’t he? He had promised many things, but he’d never promised love. What a fool, to confuse partnership with something less calculated—she had always been far too emotional.

Her fingers trembled slightly as they gripped the covers. “I—I just—I’ll go,” she stammered, before casting the blankets aside and jumping out of his bed.

“Hermione,” he called after her, but she didn’t look back as she hurried out of the room, not stopping until her own door was safely closed behind her.

~

Harry and Ginny became pregnant with their first child, and it marked a turning point in all of their lives: the first moment that they truly felt like _adults_. Against Ron’s vehement protests, Hermione dragged him along with her to shop for baby toys, insisting that the parents of the child in question were _his_ friend and _his_ sister, and this was one task he could not delegate to his wife.

“I can’t believe I’m going to be an uncle,” he said, as Hermione inspected a charmed rattle. “Ginny and Harry always tend to rush into things, don’t they?”

“It’s hard to know what to get them,” she murmured, ignoring his question. “We don’t know what sex the baby is.”

“Just get them something like a blanket.”

“That’s a terrible gift idea, Ron.”

“This is why I told you I shouldn’t go shopping. Lavender should be the one picking out gifts, not me.”

Hermione rolled her eyes and walked further into the aisle.

Once she had finally picked out two gender-neutral toys for herself and Ron, they went to tea in Diagon Alley and contemplated this new chapter of their lives.

“I haven’t even thought about having children,” he confided, breaking apart a scone. “It always seemed so far off.”

“Well, we _are_ still young.”

“Are you… planning on having children with Malfoy?” he asked hesitantly, looking as though he could think of nothing worse.

She looked down at her tea, unsure how to respond. It was something she had never considered. “I don’t think so,” she said slowly. “We’ve never talked about it.”

“Oh.” He shuddered slightly.

“I mean, I haven’t thought about it at all.” She realized that she genuinely had no idea what Draco’s thoughts on the subject were—but there was no way she could ever imagine starting _that_ conversation with him.

“I hope you don’t,” Ron blurted out, before looking instantly as though he regretted saying it. “I mean—what I meant was—Merlin, Hermione, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“No,” she said weakly, “no, it’s all right.”

“No, I shouldn’t have—it’s just—I guess it’s hard for me, because I—I still have feelings for you, and—it’s Malfoy, you know? I’m sorry, I just can’t help—”

Her heart stopped. “You still have feelings for me?”

He let out a pained sigh. “I—of course I do. I’ve always loved you.”

Suddenly, nothing else mattered.

“Ron,” she said breathlessly, “why—why didn’t you tell me this sooner?”

“I thought it was obvious.”

Tears welled up in her eyes, and she rose jubilantly from her seat and rushed to his side of the table, delirious with joy. “Ron, I’ve never stopped loving you. I’ve always—you know I couldn’t stop caring about you if I tried.”

“Hermione, I—”

“And it’s not too late,” she went on hurriedly, her chest overflooding with happiness and hope and every other emotion that she’d been suppressing for the past few years. “It might have taken us forever to get here, but it’s not too late—we can start over together, we can—”

“Hermione, I can’t leave Lavender.”

“What?”

“She needs me. I can’t leave her.”

Her radiant visions of a new future began to fade before her eyes. “But you just said that—”

“I know it’s hard, and I wish things were different, but—we’re better off apart. Lavender _needs_ me, and if I—”

“What about me?” she asked miserably. “ _I_ need you, too.”

“Hermione,” he said imploringly, “you know you’ve always been fine on your own.”

~

Ginny gave birth to a healthy son, and the happy new parents invited friends and family to come take their first look at the newborn infant. As Hermione was getting ready to leave, Draco appeared in her room and leaned against the doorway, watching her dress.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“To Harry’s. They’re having people over to see James.”

He said nothing for a moment, silently inspecting her as she put on a pair of stockings.

“And is there a reason I wasn’t informed about this get-together?”

She looked up at him in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“Why didn’t you think to invite me?” he demanded coolly.

“Are you serious?” she asked, bewildered. “You want to go to Ginny and Harry’s to look at their kid?”

Draco ignored her, instead casting a disapproving look at the robes that she had picked out for the evening. “ _That’s_ what you’re going to wear to go look at a newborn child?” he asked, his voice dripping with venom.

“What is the matter with you tonight?”

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed how you get tarted up every time the Potters have their little get-togethers. And you never seem to remember to mention them to me, do you? What happened this time? Did it _slip your mind_ again?”

Hermione stared at him. “What in Merlin’s name are you— _you_ don’t invite me to your friends’ parties, either! When was the last time _you_ told me about one of Zabini’s Slytherin lovefests?”

“I know what you’re doing, Hermione,” he said lowly, glaring at her as he advanced. “He’s going to be there without his wife, isn’t he?”

“ _Excuse me?_ ”

“Don’t play innocent with me,” he snarled. “You can play that game with anyone else you want, but don’t you _dare_ think you can try and fool me with your false indignation! _I know you._ I can read you like a _book_.”

“Draco, I wasn’t going to—”

“That’s enough!” he snapped, and she went silent.

They stood there for a minute, both fuming wordlessly.

“Whether you like it or not,” he said, seething, “he’s married. And so are you.”

He turned and swept out of the room, marching down the hall and slamming his door shut with a bang.

~

For months, there had been rumors about Higgs’ retirement, but it still caught Hermione by surprise when she found out that she was on a short list of candidates to eventually replace him. And, as she knew that she was most likely Bertie’s personal favorite among the choices, it meant that she was essentially next in line to be head of Magical Law Enforcement.

The idea was strange and thrilling, and it opened up a world of possibilities that Hermione had never fully considered before. As department head, she could make her mark on wizarding society. She even began to entertain thoughts of running for Minister. Why not, if the seat was only a stone’s throw away?

She would have to work harder than ever before in order to ensure that the MLE job was hers.

Though she never told anyone about her ambitions, Draco saw through her, as usual. One night, when she returned home late after a grueling day of work, he greeted her with the wry observation that no one ever became Minister through hard work alone.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked cautiously, and he smirked condescendingly at her.

“You seem to have the idea that drilling your point home is the best way to make people receptive to your beliefs. You know, talking non-stop about your causes, issuing report after report on a subject to prove how important it is—the things you always do. But you can’t bully your way into the position of Minister, Hermione. You’re strong, but you’re not subtle.”

And with that, he left her to ponder her own flaws.

~

In order to celebrate the passage of a particularly troublesome bill, Hermione and a few of her co-workers decided to go out for a drink in Diagon Alley. They were on their way to the Leaky Cauldron when they unexpectedly ran into Draco and Pansy coming out of a restaurant together.

“Hello,” said Pansy, looking immensely uncomfortable.

“Headed somewhere?” Draco asked casually, and Hermione was too speechless to respond.

“We were just on our way to the Leaky Cauldron,” said Lumbard. “Care to join us?”

“I don’t think we can, unfortunately,” Draco replied, “but I hope you enjoy yourselves.”

He and Hermione looked at each other in silence for a moment before Pansy said, “We really should be going,” and everyone awkwardly nodded their goodbyes.

For the rest of their walk to the pub, she could hear her co-workers murmuring quietly behind her.

When she arrived home that night, she burst into his bedroom and confronted him angrily.

“You _humiliated_ me in front of my colleagues,” she shouted. “What the hell were you doing with Parkinson?”

“Having dinner,” he said curtly, without looking up from the Prophet.

“ _Dinner?_ ” she scoffed. “Is that what we’re calling it?”

“Yes, I believe that’s the name for the meal one takes in the evening.”

“I suppose this is funny to you. I suppose it doesn’t bother you at all that you’ve made a complete _fool_ out of me—”

“And how exactly have I made a fool out of you?” he demanded.

“Everyone at work will hear about this tomorrow. It’s bad enough that everyone knows about how the two of you were all over each other at Goyle’s wedding—yes, that’s right, you didn’t think I’d hear about that, did you? Well, _I heard_. And now this! What will people think of me?”

Draco suddenly laughed, in a dark way that Hermione found chilling. “You’re one to talk,” he said. “ _Now_ you’re worried about what people will think of our marriage? Don’t you think they’ve already noticed that you spend your days mooning over Weasley at the Ministry?”

“Don’t turn this around on me—”

“And you’re accusing _me_ of making a mockery of our marriage. You lousy hypocrite. You’re selfish, and all you give a damn about is getting what you want, whatever it is—whether it’s power or Weasley or a job or even winning a stupid argument. You don’t care who you step on along the way, whose feelings you hurt, whose lives you ruin. You might think you love him, but you don’t. You couldn’t. You don’t know what love is.”

Hermione wanted to argue with him, to tear him apart limb from limb; but all she could think about was running away as fast as she could. Her insides felt as though they were splitting in two, and to her mortification, her eyes began to flood with tears.

“Why did you marry me if you felt this way?” she cried.

It was not a question she had meant to ask—but as soon as the words were out of her mouth, she found that it was something she had wanted to know for ages. Against all logic and reason, she realized that—in the back of her mind—she hoped he would answer that he loved her.

But of course, he did not.

“I don’t know,” he said, his voice strangely tight. “I suppose I thought I could handle it. It turns out I was wrong.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick note before our regularly scheduled programming!
> 
> To my shock and delight, I was chosen as this month's Featured Author at Hawthorn & Vine (the Dramione archive, for those of you who aren't familiar with it). I can't express how thrilled and honored I am, and I'm so grateful to all my amazing readers and to everyone who voted for me!
> 
> If you're interested, I would absolutely love for all of you to check out my Q&A post at H&V and ask me questions! The post is on LJ, so you can still drop by and comment even if you aren't a member of the archive. The link is:
> 
> http://hawthorn-vine.livejournal.com/39473.html
> 
> I look forward to hearing from you guys! =) And now, back to the show. Thanks again for reading—just one chapter left!

It was not long before Harry and Ginny had a second child. They held another dinner for their friends and family, and after everyone had spent the evening cooing over Albus, Hermione and Ron escaped upstairs for a hard drink.

“If someone asks me _one more time_ when Lavender and I expect to have our first…” He muttered something profane under his breath and took a sip of Firewhiskey.

“You’re a Weasley,” laughed Hermione. “Of course they expect you to procreate quickly—and often.”

“Just because Ginny’s pumping out babies like there’s no tomorrow,” he grumbled.

“Oh, forget about other people. Who cares what they think?”

“I just don’t want to spend the rest of my life explaining to people why we don’t have—” He broke off suddenly.

Hermione’s smile disappeared. “What do you mean, the rest of your life?”

He gave a heavy sigh and ran a hand through his hair. “Listen—don’t tell anyone about this, but… Lavender can’t have children.”

She stared at him in surprise. “Ron, I’m so sorry.”

“No, it’s fine. I’ve accepted it, now. But it’s because she was attacked by Greyback—you know, in the war—and so she’ll never be able to get pregnant. I just don’t like everyone asking us over and over about it, you know?”

“That’s terrible,” she breathed. “I had no idea.”

“Neither did we. We just found out a few months ago, from a Healer.” Tears began to stream down his cheeks. “I just—I always thought I’d have kids, you know? Who doesn’t expect to have kids when they grow up?”

She rushed over to him and threw her arms about him. “I’m so sorry to hear that, Ron. I really am.”

They were still holding each other when the door suddenly burst open.

“What are you two doing up—”

Ginny stopped dead in her tracks.

Hermione and Ron sprang apart. Lavender, who was right behind her, suddenly started shrieking hysterically; and she raced down the stairs in tears. Ginny stood in the doorway, glaring fiercely at the both of them.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she demanded.

“ _Bloody hell_ ,” groaned Ron, leaving the room to chase after his wife. “Lavender!”

~

It turned out that Lavender was particularly skilled at making a scene, and by the time lunch rolled around the next day at work, everyone at the Ministry seemed to have heard about what had happened at the Potters’. Whispers in the halls followed Hermione everywhere she went, now embellished heavily with all sorts of exaggerations:

_I heard she caught them in bed._

_They say Lavender threw a bloody fit in front of everyone._

_She found them naked in the nursery._

_The whole party saw, if you know what I mean._

By the time Hermione got home, she was completely drained.

When she wandered, exhausted, into her bedroom, she found Draco sitting on her bed and waiting for her.

“Welcome home,” he said, his voice strangely hoarse.

“What are you doing in here?”

“Waiting for my lovely wife,” he replied sardonically. “How was your day, darling?”

As she drew nearer, she noticed a faint smell of Firewhiskey. “Are you drunk?” she asked disbelievingly, and he suddenly turned vicious.

“I can drink as much as I damn well please!”

“I wasn’t complaining—”

He rose from the bed. “Don’t you have something to say to me?”

“What?”

“ _Isn’t there something you ought to tell me?_ ”

She suddenly realized what was happening. “Draco, if this is about last night, then you should know that—”

“Last night?” he scoffed, stepping closer to her. The alcohol from his breath stung her eyes, and she blinked uncomfortably. “It’s not about last night. It’s about every single day of my wretched life since I put that stupid ring on your finger.”

“Listen to me. Nothing happened. Ron was just—”

“Don’t you say his fucking name to me!” he shouted, and the lights flickered. It was the first time she’d ever seen him exhibit uncontrolled magic. “What the _fuck_ do you see in him? He’s an embarrassment. He’s barely a man. He’s a poor excuse for a wizard.”

She started to say something, but he cut her off.

“He didn’t want you the way you were,” he growled, moving even closer. “But I do. I’m the only one who really knows you—knows how sick you are, how _twisted_. I’m the only one who wants you for what you are, but you’re too dense to see that.” He grabbed her by the arms before she could resist. “What do I have to do to get rid of him? Do I have to kill him? Or would that just make you pine after his ghost?”

“Draco, I—”

“Shut up.”

And before she could respond, he kissed her so forcefully that she stumbled backwards; had he not caught her by the waist, she might have fallen. There was nothing loving about the urgent way he claimed her mouth, as though he were dying of thirst and she alone held the last drops of water in the world. She gasped when he spun her around and slammed her against the wall, gripping her tightly with one hand while he fisted her skirt and _pulled_ with the other. The fabric gave way with a loud rip as he tore it away from her; and she had only vaguely noticed him undoing his belt before he lifted one of her legs, pulled her underwear to the side, and thrust violently into her.

He had been aggressive before, but never like this. “Do you think Weasley could satisfy you?” he snarled into her ear, picking up his speed. “Do you think _Weasley_ could take you like this?”

She fought not to moan, clutching at his arms for purchase as he drove into her again and again. “How do I get him out of your head?” he breathed. “Do I have to _fuck_ it out of you?”

She wanted him to stop talking, so she turned her head and tried to capture his lips with hers; but he tangled one hand into her hair and jerked it back so that she could not reach him.

“ _Draco_ ,” she pleaded, without being sure what she was asking for.

“I thought I’d have you if I married you,” he whispered hotly against her exposed neck. “I was wrong. But if only for one night,” he said, his voice thick with rage as he forged a trail along her collarbone with his tongue, “you’re going to belong to me _completely_.”

~

When Hermione woke the next morning, Draco was gone.

She went hesitantly in search of him, even peeking inside his bedroom, but he was nowhere to be found.

It was only late that night that he returned, marching directly to his room and quietly closing the door before Hermione could even catch so much as a glimpse of him. He stayed away from her for days afterwards, and though she wished he wouldn’t, her pride kept her from seeking him out on her own. After all, he _had_ treated her terribly—it would be undignified for her to approach him before he’d even apologized.

So she waited. But as the weeks went by, Draco still kept to himself. And when, one morning, she finally decided to leave late for work in order to confront him at breakfast, he barely looked at her as he took his seat and summoned a house elf for his food.

Eventually, she was appointed Head of Magical Law Enforcement, and then she no longer had any time to worry about the frequency of their interactions—or even to interact with him at all.


End file.
